My name is Jason, and I’m 22 years old and from Oregon, USA. The story I’m about to share is one of mistakes, trauma, and painful lessons—but also one of hope, redemption, and transformation. I once lived a life I never thought I’d escape. Between the ages of 19 and 21, I made choices that changed my life forever. My struggles with loneliness, homelessness, and childhood trauma led me down a dark path where I used sex as a coping mechanism. I did things I deeply regret—things that brought shame, fear, and consequences I’ll carry for life, including a diagnosis of HSV-2 (genital herpes).
For a long time, I thought I was beyond saving—that my past mistakes would define me forever. But I was wrong. This is a story about how I confronted my pain, found healing through faith, and decided to reclaim my life. I’m still on this journey, but I’ve learned that even the darkest parts of our stories can be turned into something beautiful.
In this story, I’ll share what led me to this point, how I’m working to forgive myself, and what I’ve learned along the way. If you’re struggling with shame, loneliness, or your past, I hope my journey reminds you that it’s never too late to change.
What was life like during the period when you were experiencing loneliness and homelessness?
I was homeless in South Korea as an exchange student for a period of time during my study abroad there. When I say “homeless,” I don’t mean I never had a place to stay—although there were a few nights like that. For the most part, I managed to spend those nights in 24-hour study cafes or fast-food chains to avoid the cold. However, there were nights when I had no choice but to stay outside. On one particular night, I even tried staying out in the freezing cold because I felt so worthless that I thought I deserved to freeze to death. Now that I think about it, there were more than just a few nights like that.
One night, I remember hiking up to the top of a mountain—not a well-known one like Namsan Mountain, but a smaller, less popular one. It was a snowy, freezing night, probably around 2 AM, when I finally reached the top. I just stared at the city skyline and cried. The enormity of Seoul, with all its people and lights, made me feel even smaller. I couldn’t shake the thought that not a single person in this entire megacity would care if I froze to death right then and there. This was long before I contracted herpes. At the time, I was just incredibly lonely—longing for love, a home, or simply a place where I felt like I belonged.
Part of me wanted to go back home to Oregon, where I’m originally from, but I knew that if I returned, there wouldn’t be anything waiting for me there. Going back would feel like giving up the best opportunity I had to create a future for myself. The intense loneliness I felt led me down a dark path of self-harm and destructive behaviors, including casual sex, sending embarrassing and regretful photos of my body to people online, and degrading myself in countless ways.
What emotions did you experience when you first realized you were using sex as a coping mechanism?
I felt shame, disgust, anger, and fear. I felt ashamed of myself because despite my tumultuous childhood—i.e., being molested by my neighbors, abused by my parents, bullied in school, and being sent from one foster home to another—I still had an understanding of Christ and who He is. Despite all the troubles I experienced in my childhood, Christ had always been my shelter, even when I had no other place to run to. As a result, I firmly believed I could stand by the Ten Commandments and not commit adultery, not fall into sexual sin, and be pure until marriage. However, once I realized I was using sex as a coping mechanism, I immediately felt like a hypocrite—someone who professes to know and believe in Christ but doesn’t practice it—and this caused me to feel shame.
Disgust came from mentally reviewing the interactions I had over the two years that I was struggling with using sex as a coping mechanism. For instance, I remembered the dirty things I said or did, and it caused me to feel disgusted with myself for not having dignity. I felt anger that I had even allowed myself to fall to such a low and pitiful level, and I felt fear that this would be my new reality and I would either never be able to escape from it, or even if I did, I’d never recover from the trauma it caused. And to be honest, that fear was well-founded because it has caused so much trauma and PTSD to me. I also have a fear for the future that even if I find a good job, marry, and have a happy family, some sort of boogeyman from my past will come and find me and make me pay for all my sins.
I know this is a silly fear, as such a thing has not happened yet and likely won’t happen since I’ve been so transparent about this time of my life and have been rejecting that former lifestyle I lived while also pursuing self-improvement and righteousness, but you get the idea. I believe in karma, so I am trying to do good things to offset any negative karma that may be left over from that dark period of my life.
How did you come to the decision to embrace celibacy, and what does it mean to you now?
I came to the decision to embrace celibacy because I believe peace is better than fleeting pleasures. I wish I had had the maturity to be celibate from ages 19 to 21. If I had been, none of these bad things would have happened to me (i.e., PTSD, chronic trauma-based shame identity issues, herpes, fear of the past combined with an equivalent fear of walking into the future confidently, etc.). Moreover, celibacy helps me separate myself from that former lifestyle and prove to myself that I am not the same person who made those mistakes.
I have even gone an extra step to not only practice total celibacy but to declare all-out war on any sexual identity left over in me. I no longer watch porn, nor do I masturbate or engage in lewd conversation or nude-sharing. I am not saying celibacy is the path everyone should take after catching an incurable STD. However, I’ve chosen celibacy less because I caught herpes and don’t want to catch HIV (since I’d be at a higher risk now) or accidentally infect someone else with HSV-2 (since it can shed asymptomatically). Rather, I’ve chosen it because it helps me move away from the trauma that entire period caused me. It helps me affirm that I am no longer the same person I used to be.
Celibacy can be a great option for those dealing with shame, trauma, and hurt from their sexual past. Whether it stems from a sexual assault or one’s own lack of prudence—in both cases, living with chastity can be helpful for overcoming those traumas.
Can you walk me through the moment you were diagnosed with HSV-2 and how you coped with the news?
Well, the truth is I didn’t cope well with the news at all. This had to have been the darkest moment of my life—less because of the diagnosis alone, but more so because of everything that happened at the same time around it that totally traumatized me and ruined 2024 for good. Let me walk you through it:
It was the end of 2023. I had been reflecting a lot about my lifestyle and how it had negatively impacted me (i.e., leading me to consider suicide, commit self-harm, etc.). I realized that I really needed to make a change, so I had already made a vow to Christ that I would completely quit all sexual sin in 2024 and reaffirm my life toward Him so I could walk in His peace and grace.
To commit myself to this lofty goal, I applied to move into a shared house called “Borderless House” in Taiwan, where I would be living with roommates and would no longer be alone, thereby eliminating my intense loneliness and need to cope through sexual interactions. You could say that, for lack of real and healthy relationships in my life, I was turning to sex as a coping mechanism. Therefore, living in that shared house seemed like a great way to circumnavigate this issue, as it would help me overcome the loneliness that led me to cope in that way.
Additionally, I had told myself that I would be doing the Peace Corps in Mongolia in June of 2024, so if I held on long enough through my time in Taiwan, I would likely be stationed in a rural town in Mongolia where I wouldn’t even have the option to engage in sex or hookups as a coping mechanism. All I needed to do was move into the shared house, hold out until Mongolia, pray hard, and read the Bible until then—and I’d be fine. Or so I thought.
I had actually gone and gotten a full STD panel in Taiwan from my urologist in Taipei around November 2023, and I tested negative for everything—including HSV-2, which I specifically asked to be included since HSV is not part of standard STD panels, even in Taiwan. This test was also a requirement for the Peace Corps medical staff. I had worried that, with how many encounters I’d had prior to this test, I might actually test positive for HSV.
However, seeing the negative results was reassuring. Still, something deep down in my heart told me that if I engaged in sex outside of marriage even one more time, God would punish me with HSV-2. I know this probably sounds superstitious to some people, but I truly had that deep sense in my soul that this was a final warning from God. Even though He is a forgiving God, He will discipline those He loves to bring them back into right living and fellowship with Him.
Regardless, I didn’t listen. I figured, well, the girl I’d been seeing at that time had engaged with me in sex before the test, and I still tested negative, so what would be the harm if we did it a few more times? And besides, we weren’t really dating yet, so would it hurt if I had a few more flings here and there? “I’ll just enjoy the sinfulness until the end of 2023, and by 2024, I’ll fully stop,” I told myself. God was not happy with this willing disobedience.
Needless to say, I had about four more partners and engaged in even more sex with the girl I’d already been with before my original STD panel. One encounter was only oral sex, and another was barely an encounter at all because I felt convicted and stopped after only about a minute. Without going into too much detail, I had somehow convinced myself that more sex wouldn’t get me in trouble with God because I could always just repent. Plus, I had already worked things out with my landlord to move out by the end of December and into a shared house by January. What could go wrong?
By the end of December, I remember watching the fireworks by Taipei 101 (the tallest building in Taiwan) go off as I finished the last and final hookup of my life. I had actually told that partner that I didn’t want to have sex with her at all, but she said she had already booked the hotel and insisted it was my duty to keep my promise to her. I guess I sort of unwillingly gave in one last time. But I figured, since we finished before it turned to 2024, I could still start the new year with a clean slate, right? After all, she was a virgin who hadn’t done it before and wanted to try it with me, of all people.
Now, I’m not saying I caught it from her, but I knew something just wasn’t right when I went to church 12 days later. I felt tired, exhausted, and overall very weak. I thought it might be because I hadn’t gotten good sleep the night before, but as soon as the service ended, I went straight home and took a long nap.
When I woke up around 8 PM that night, I felt really weird. And man, was my crotch itchy! I didn’t know what it was, but I didn’t actually check. I just figured I needed to go for a quick night bike ride to gather my thoughts.
As I kept riding my bike, the itchiness became unbearable. I had never felt anything like it before—not as a child when I was tickled, not during rashes, nor even during illnesses. Desperation set in as the sensation grew worse, and I quickly found the nearest public bathroom. Hiding in a stall, I turned on the flashlight on my phone to investigate. What I saw horrified me. I knew what it was deep down, but I couldn’t bring myself to accept it. My mind raced as I thought, “God, I’ve already changed. I’ve quit. Why punish me now?”
For the next two weeks, I couldn’t afford to get re-tested for HSV. I tried my best to push the thought out of my mind, but it lingered like a shadow over everything I did. When I finally went to my doctor for confirmation, I walked in feeling strangely confident. A part of me believed it couldn’t possibly be HSV—it just couldn’t. “That kind of thing happens to bad people, not to me, right?” I told myself.
But a few days later, the lab results came in via email. I was teaching an English class to elementary school students when the notification popped up. My curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the email right then and there. My eyes scanned the words quickly: HSV-1 antibody, “non-reactive.” My heart lifted for a second. Then, I saw it—HSV-2 antibody, “reactive.” My heart sank. In that moment, I knew my life as I had known it was over.
The rest of that lesson was excruciating. It felt like the longest four hours of my life as I tried to hold back tears in front of my students, pretending everything was normal. The moment the class ended, I rushed home and let myself cry. The weight of my new reality hit me all at once, and I began the long process of coming to terms with it.
In the weeks that followed, I was a nervous wreck, consumed by anxiety and denial. I spent nearly all of my income retaking HSV tests, clinging to the hope that my initial results might have been wrong. My antibody count was low enough to fall within the "false positive" range on the IgG test, which is typically between 1.0 and 3.5. That slim possibility kept me spiraling, and I probably retook the test at least five times.
Each time, however, my antibody levels inched higher and higher, confirming what I desperately didn’t want to accept. To make matters worse, my doctor offered no emotional support. It felt as though he reveled in my pain, never discouraging me from re-testing even though he knew the results wouldn’t change. Looking back, he should have refused to allow the re-tests, sparing me the unnecessary financial and emotional strain.
At night, I would spend hours scouring the internet, desperately searching for cures, alternative explanations, or any shred of evidence that maybe I didn’t have HSV—that maybe this was all some kind of terrible mistake or a bad dream. I clung to every bit of hope I could find, no matter how unlikely, and my sleepless nights became a blur of frantic research and mounting despair. Despite all my efforts to convince myself otherwise, the reality of my diagnosis slowly but surely settled in, leaving me feeling utterly defeated. Yet, I persisted in my denial.
Finally, I discovered something called the "Western Blot test," widely regarded as the most accurate test available for HSV diagnosis. Desperate for clarity, I reached out to Terri Warren, a renowned herpes expert. After consulting with her, I decided to pursue the test despite its steep cost. I even requested a temporary leave from work and school so I could return to the United States for confirmation. Fortunately, this coincided with the Chinese New Year in 2024, so I didn’t miss many work or school days, as most people were on holiday during this time.
This trip marked my first time back in America in nearly four years—the last being when I left for South Korea to start university. While there, I spent a little time with my parents and used the opportunity to handle some other essential tasks for my Peace Corps application, including fingerprinting for my legal background check and getting bitewing x-rays for the dental clearance. However, the primary reason for my return was to take the Western Blot test. It was my last glimmer of hope, my final shot at definitive answers.
After only four days in the U.S., I returned to Taiwan, still awaiting the conclusive results of my herpes diagnosis. Yet even before leaving Taiwan, I faced unexpected and disheartening challenges. I was abruptly kicked out of my shared house, despite not yet having confirmed whether I had HSV-2. On my first night in the house, I had confided in one of my roommates about the possibility of having HSV-2. I was still grappling with how to process the situation myself and thought that opening up to someone might help me navigate future conversations about it. While it might not have been the smartest decision to disclose such personal information to a near stranger, I believed it could be an icebreaker and a step toward accepting my new reality.
Unfortunately, this backfired. The next day, I discovered that my roommate had shared what I told him with the landlord and the other tenants without my consent. The landlord then issued an eviction order, requiring me to move out within the week. This all happened before I even had the chance to take the Western Blot test. They didn’t care about the lack of conclusive evidence—they kicked me out simply because I might have herpes.
Their reactions were riddled with ignorance and fear. They voiced concerns that I might drink from their water bottles or that herpes could linger in the shower after I used it, putting them at risk of catching it. They treated me as though I were carrying some rare foreign contagion, oblivious to the irony that I contracted it from a Taiwanese person in Taiwan. Moreover, they seemed to not understand that I did not carry HSV-1 and therefore could not transfer it by drinking out of their water bottles, and why the heck would I do such a thing anyway? Who drinks out of other people’s water bottles?
Needless to say, the stigma I experienced was overwhelming and deeply isolating, compounding an already challenging situation. I had never cried so much in my life than that night I was betrayed by my roommate and kicked out of the shared house after only living there for two days— all because of a virus I wasn’t even sure I had yet, nor one that I ever asked to have. None of my former partners ever told me about their status.
When I received the Western Blot results, I immediately called my pastor. He had been praying for me while I was in America, as I had already confided in him about the possibility of having an STD. He had asked me to share the results as soon as I got them, so I picked up the phone and told him the truth. “Pastor, it’s true. I got the Western Blot results back. I’ve truly contracted HSV-2 and am now a lifelong carrier of the virus,” I said, my voice heavy with emotion.
To my shock and horror, his response was not what I expected. I thought he would comfort me, remind me that God still loves and forgives me, and offer the compassion I so desperately needed. Instead, his reaction was cold and condemning. He told me not to come back to church until “he could figure things out,” and he ended the call without even praying for me. In that moment, I felt completely cast out—not just from my church community, but from the place I had looked to for spiritual refuge.
Later, after mustering the courage to clarify his words, I asked if he truly meant I was banned from church for good. He replied, “You can still come to church, but you can no longer teach Sunday School. You’ll infect all the children, and we can’t have that.” His words stung like a slap in the face. When I directly asked if he thought I was dirty, he simply said, “You are.”
Although he didn’t outright ban me from attending church, his lack of empathy, the coldness in his tone, and the way he dismissed me were devastating. To me, it was as if he had exiled me entirely. The pastor’s judgment, his refusal to offer grace, and his cruel insinuations made it clear that I could never return to a church led by someone so heartless. His response lingered in my mind long after that call, solidifying my sense of isolation during one of the most vulnerable times in my life.
To be honest, I wasn’t planning on ever teaching Sunday School again. I only did that to feel like I was contributing something of value to the church to compensate for my life that was otherwise bound in sin and shame. It was mostly performative, as I was clearly not honoring God with my behaviors outside of the church at all, even if they were only coping mechanisms for childhood trauma and deeper self-esteem issues. However, him outright telling me that I would quote, “infect all the children” made me feel like a disgusting biohazard that only worsened that already deep sense of being outcast and ashamed after my roommate had tattled on me and got me kicked out of the shared house.
In the months that followed, I lived in a cloud of shame, darkness, and trauma. The new house I moved into upon returning to Taiwan was more expensive than the shared house or the place I lived in during 2023, yet it was in far worse condition and a grittier part of Taipei. Each day felt like a waking nightmare. Still, I forced myself to carry on with my routine: waking up, attending Chinese class, going to work, hitting the gym, heading to another job, and finally returning home late at night, exhausted and starving by 9 or 10 PM, even on weekends too. I kept going despite the heavy burden I carried inside and the growing voice that told me to give up entirely.
Despite these overwhelming feelings, I never resorted to self-harm again. I knew that doing so would jeopardize my chances of holding quality jobs in the future. My dream of joining the Navy SEALs—something I had aspired to since living in South Korea at age 17—remained a motivating factor. I worried that self-harm scars, compounded by my herpes diagnosis, might overshadow any strengths I brought to the table, such as my physical fitness, intelligence, and language skills (Mandarin Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Mongolian, etc.), potentially leading to medical disqualification right from the start.
During those months, I maintained celibacy and worked hard to quit porn, though I struggled with that goal and continue to aim for complete freedom from it in 2025. I also lived in a state of shock and disbelief about everything that had happened. For a time, I tried starting a YouTube channel similar to Christopher Pickering's “Herpes Consulting,” where he shares his story and motivates others living with herpes. However, I ultimately decided to take the videos down to maintain my privacy. I realized I wasn’t yet in the right place emotionally to inspire or motivate others, as I was still grappling with my own diagnosis.
I even made an effort to participate in a clinical trial for HSV at what I believed was a biotech company near Taipei 101. Unfortunately, when I reached out, I was essentially told to "get lost," which was another blow to my already fragile state.
Despite these challenges, I managed to pass the medical, dental, and legal clearances for the Peace Corps, even with my herpes diagnosis. At one point, I feared I might have contracted HIV as well. After receiving my positive HSV-2 diagnosis, I re-tested for all other STDs to ensure I hadn’t caught anything else. Thankfully, all the results came back negative, though I remained anxious for months that my HIV antibodies might suddenly spike and deliver yet another blow. Thankfully, that fear never materialized.
By the end of June 2024, I left Taiwan and embarked on a new chapter of my journey. I’ve since visited Hong Kong, Thailand, Mongolia, and now Japan, where I am currently studying Japanese in Tokyo. This year, I’ve remained celibate and used the time to reflect deeply—not just on my herpes diagnosis but on my entire past. I’ve engaged in counseling, self-help work, therapy, and recovery programs to heal and grow.
Additionally, I’ve been accepted into Youth With A Mission (YWAM) in Battambang, Cambodia, where I’ll begin a Christian training program called Discipleship Training School (DTS) at the end of this year. This isn’t my first experience with DTS—I participated in the program once before during the difficult period between the ages of 19 and 21, when I was deeply depressed and using sex as a coping mechanism. Although I had applied to DTS at that time to escape from such a lifestyle, I still fell prey to it even there. Unfortunately, I was asked to leave that time due to my lack of focus during lectures (I was studying Chinese instead of paying attention) and for hooking up with someone during the program. This time, however, I’m determined not to repeat those mistakes.
As I prepare for this new chapter, I feel a renewed sense of hope and resilience, ready to embrace this opportunity for growth, healing, and service. My herpes diagnosis, which once felt like the end of my world, no longer defines me. In fact, it has been the catalyst for a profound transformation in my life. At just 22 years old, I realize that I have an entire lifetime ahead of me—time to learn, grow, and avoid the mistakes that once held me back.
I firmly believe that God has the power to turn our darkest moments into stories of redemption and triumph. What once seemed like a devastating end has instead become a new beginning, filled with purpose and the chance to create something meaningful from my struggles. My journey isn’t over—it’s just beginning, and I’m determined to make the most of it.
Oh, and for context, I will be doing Peace Corps Mongolia next year. I wasn’t able to do it this year not because of herpes, but because I didn’t graduate in time so I had to wait one extra year.
How has your perspective on intimacy and relationships evolved since that time?
My perspective on intimacy and relationships has profoundly shifted. I now firmly believe that intimacy belongs solely within the confines of marriage, where it can be built on trust, commitment, and mutual respect. Any intimacy outside of marriage, in my experience, tends to invite unnecessary complications—whether it’s emotional regret, misunderstandings, abortions, the risk of STDs, or other challenges better avoided. This isn’t to shame those who choose a different path, but for me, I’ve come to understand my personal boundaries and the value of safeguarding them.
Catching herpes was a pivotal moment that forced me to reassess these boundaries. While it came with pain and lessons, it also brought a surprising benefit: it has made me more open and vulnerable in my relationships. This vulnerability has become a filter, allowing me to identify potential partners who truly see and value me for who I am, beyond my diagnosis or my past. If someone can accept me fully, including my challenges, then I know they are worth my time, trust, and commitment. With them, I am ready to invest wholeheartedly in building something real and lasting.
What are some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced while trying to forgive yourself?
By far, the greatest challenge has been coming to terms with the reality of my actions. Yes, I did those things. I crossed lines I never thought I would. I engaged in behaviors I once judged harshly in others, believing I was above them. I used sex as a coping mechanism and, in just two years, reached a body count of around 23—a number I’m not proud of. I broke my own moral code repeatedly, crossing boundaries I had once sworn to uphold. Accepting these truths has been humbling and painful, but it has also been a necessary step in my journey toward growth and redemption.
How have your experiences with childhood trauma shaped your view of yourself and the world around you?
My childhood trauma has caused me always to worry that I am the center of any problem that arises in my life—even if it is not my fault. My parents have berated me with hurtful words since childhood and made it clear that I’m the reason “they’ll die homeless” and that “I am a fat pig and a mistake.”
I remember clearly the day my mother was arrested for beating me as a child. I had missed two weeks of school because of all the bruises I had, but the school called my mom and became suspicious about why I had suddenly stopped attending. She couldn’t be honest about trying to hide the bruises she gave me from whipping me with her belt all over my body.
Anyway, the day I finally went back to school, I remember that during show-and-tell, I stupidly showed off my bruises and scars. When my first-grade teacher asked me how I got them, I naïvely said, “My mom gave them to me.” Suddenly, my teacher visibly became choked up with tears and sent me to the principal’s office so that the principal could get a better look. I remember stripping down naked in front of him as a child, which was honestly very traumatic, but it was so he could see my bruises. They called my mom and had her come to school. They showed her my bruises and asked how they got there. I can’t remember what she said, but I do remember the image of her being handcuffed and taken away by police from my elementary school.
Since that day, my father practically disowned me. I was also bullied a lot in school and molested by my neighbors on many occasions. I was sent to foster care and kept switching houses because nobody wanted me. Eventually, I did move back in with my father somehow, but he was practically absent from my life, even though we lived together.
Finally, by middle school, my mom’s restraining order was lifted, and she was able to live with us again. Regardless, the scars of my childhood trauma have always caused me to view myself as a burden to others, a mistake for existing, and to constantly seek others’ approval so that I won’t feel like I don’t deserve to exist.
I think this is what sent me down the path of seeking sex as a way to cope with these emotions. I believe sex made me feel like that person really liked me and approved of me—otherwise, why would they be having sex with me? However, catching herpes was the wake-up call I needed. I realized this wasn’t a good way to deal with my feelings of inadequacy.
Oh, and my view of the world? It’s cold—a place where they’ll kill you in cold blood if you’re not strong yourself. Despite this, I want to bring joy and love to the world in any way I can.
What has been the most helpful tool or practice in your journey to quit sexual vices?
My faith in Christ and my commitment to becoming the man I want to be have been two of the most effective tools in helping me quit my sexual vices. Additionally, the fear of spreading herpes or contracting other STDs has further deterred me from engaging in sexual activity. I am focused on becoming a better Christian, fasting from all sexual vices until the desire to give in to them is completely gone, and reminding myself of the embarrassing and regrettable things I did during those two years of backsliding.
There is one particular incident that sticks with me—a time when I sent inappropriate pictures of myself to someone (consensually, of course). While it was consensual, I came to deeply regret that interaction later. At the time, it seemed fine, but once I sobered up from the haze of my sexual pursuits and saw the degrading things I had recorded myself doing, I felt overwhelming shame. I eventually asked her to delete the pictures, and she did.
Later, when I was diagnosed with herpes, I decided to tell her to see how she would react. To provide some context, we had never met in person at that point—and still haven’t to this day—though there was some intention to do so at the time. I thought that as a self-proclaimed sex-positive person, she would be understanding and maybe even offer some encouragement. Instead, she shamed me, mocking my already vulnerable emotional state by saying I must have “had sex with a bunch of dirty women” to contract the virus. This led to a big fight, and we eventually stopped communicating.
Sometime later, I saw her on a different app, one that wasn’t for dating but for language exchange. I thought it might be a chance to apologize for everything—again, not because I had done anything non-consensual, but because I had behaved in ways that were embarrassing and, in hindsight, beneath the person I wanted to be. Unfortunately, when I attempted to apologize, she rejected it and told me to “F off.”
That experience was profound for me because I had never sincerely apologized to someone before and been denied the closure of forgiveness. It left me with an unsettling feeling, one that I didn’t know how to process.
So how does this tie into overcoming my sexual vices? While I may not have received closure from her, I often imagine her as a kind of moral guide—like the angel and devil analogy on one’s shoulders. She serves as a reminder of who I don’t want to be anymore. I think about her, and instead of feeling despair, I use the regret from that experience as motivation to grow. I want to live my life in such a way that if she ever saw me again, whether I became famous or crossed paths with her randomly, she wouldn’t doubt my transformation. I want her to see that my change is real, not performative, and maybe—just maybe—offer me the forgiveness I sought but didn’t receive back then.
That’s my secret to overcoming sexual vices: remembering that one embarrassing encounter and striving to prove, both to myself and to anyone who doubted me, that I am not the same person I was. The need to grow, to change, and to seek self-forgiveness drives me forward every day. I hope that if she does see me someday again, she’ll be pleasantly surprised to see how much I’ve changed—or at the very least, not care one way or the other.
What does self-acceptance mean to you now, and how has it changed over time?
Self-acceptance, to me, means acknowledging the mistakes I’ve made in the past while committing to never repeat them in the future. It’s not just about accepting myself as I am but about striving to overcome the parts of myself that hold me back or harm others. If I recognize behaviors that are toxic to myself or those around me, it’s my responsibility to change them. Self-acceptance is not an excuse to say, “That’s just who I am.” Instead, it’s a commitment to continuous growth and self-improvement.
I have big aspirations for the future—becoming a Navy SEAL, a virologist, and a diplomat—and each of these roles demands the highest levels of ethics, integrity, and responsibility. Reflecting on my past, I deeply regret the period of my life when I lost my way, even though it lasted only two years. During that time, I strayed from my values, but I’ve since come to understand the importance of taking full responsibility for my actions.
Through self-acceptance, I’ve embraced the hard work of repentance, turning away from my mistakes, and shaping myself into the man I want to be. It’s an ongoing journey of transformation, and while I carry the lessons of my past, I refuse to let them define my future. Self-acceptance is about striving to align my actions with my aspirations, living with integrity, and becoming the best version of myself.
Can you describe the turning point when you decided to leave the past behind and focus on healing?
For me, the turning point came when I was diagnosed with herpes. In that moment, I realized I could no longer continue living the way I had been and still expect my life to have meaning, purpose, or growth. It was a wake-up call—one that forced me to confront my choices, my pain, and the destructive coping mechanisms I had relied on for far too long. That moment marked the beginning of my journey toward healing, self-reflection, and ultimately becoming the person I truly want to be.
How has your relationship with others changed since you've started this healing process?
Since starting my healing process, my relationships with others have transformed significantly. I’ve become more intentional about understanding the true value of the connections I form. Now, I focus on building bridges rather than burning them. I strive to avoid unnecessary conflict, choosing instead to be kind, diplomatic, and open to finding common ground with everyone I encounter. I’ve learned the importance of humility—listening more, speaking less, and not seeking to be the center of attention. My goal is to cultivate relationships that are genuine, respectful, and built on mutual understanding.
What role has regret played in your journey, and how do you manage those feelings now?
Regret has played a significant role in my journey, serving as both a burden and a powerful motivator for change. In the past, I struggled with deep shame over the choices I made—whether it was seeking validation through unhealthy relationships, engaging in behaviors I later found degrading, or allowing loneliness and insecurity to dictate my actions. At times, regret weighed so heavily on me that it fueled feelings of self-loathing and hopelessness.
However, instead of letting regret consume me, I’ve learned to use it as a tool for growth.
Now, I view regret as a reminder of the person I don’t want to be and the choices I no longer wish to make. It keeps me grounded and focused on becoming the man I aspire to be—someone of integrity, faith, and discipline.
I manage these feelings by leaning on my relationship with Christ, striving for forgiveness, and reminding myself that I’m not defined by my past mistakes but by how I respond to them. I’ve also embraced celibacy, introspection, and continuous self-improvement to prove—to myself and to those I’ve hurt—that I am committed to living differently. Regret no longer traps me in the past; instead, it pushes me to work harder, heal, and move forward with purpose.
If someone were to ask for your advice about coping with shame, what would you tell them?
I would tell them that shame, while painful, does not have to define who you are or dictate your future. The first step is to confront it honestly—acknowledge the choices or circumstances that led to those feelings instead of running away from them. From there, focus on what you can do to grow and become a better version of yourself. Lean into your faith, your values, and the vision you have for the person you want to be.
For me, my relationship with Christ and embracing celibacy have been key tools in letting go of shame and replacing it with purpose. I’d also remind them to extend grace to themselves—no one is perfect, and your past mistakes don’t have to be the end of your story. Shame loses its power when you use it as a motivator for growth instead of a weapon for self-condemnation. Seek forgiveness from God, others, and yourself, and let that be the foundation for your healing.
What do you wish people would understand about you or your story before they form any judgments?
I wish people would understand that my past was not a reflection of who I truly am, but rather the product of deep loneliness, trauma, and a search for love and validation in all the wrong places. I’ve been open about my struggles, mistakes, and regrets because I believe in taking accountability, but I also believe that people can change.
I want others to see that I am not the person I used to be—I’ve worked tirelessly to transform my life, focusing on my faith, self-discipline, and the values I now hold dear. My story is not just one of mistakes and shame; it’s also one of resilience, redemption, and hope. I want people to understand that we are all capable of growth, and I am proof that even in the darkest times, it’s possible to rise above the past and build a meaningful, purposeful future.
Looking back, what do you feel proud of about your journey, even if it’s still ongoing?
I am proud of how far I’ve come and the strength I’ve shown in refusing to let my past define me. It wasn’t easy to face my mistakes, my shame, or the consequences of my choices, but I did it. I chose to confront the darkest parts of my life, take responsibility, and commit to real change. I’m proud of the way I’ve turned to faith and embraced celibacy as a way to heal and honor God. I’ve worked hard to rebuild my character, set boundaries, and live a life aligned with my values and aspirations.
I’m also proud of my persistence and resilience in pursuing my dreams. Whether it’s joining the Peace Corps, becoming a diplomat, helping others, or studying languages like Mongolian, Korean, and Chinese—I’m determined to make a positive impact on the world and give back to the communities I’ve been a part of. Despite the setbacks, loneliness, and trauma I’ve experienced, I haven’t given up. My journey is far from over, but I’m proud of the progress I’ve made and the person I am becoming.
