I Write to Stay Alive (Baptism)

Author's Note: The Foreward that follows was written this week while I was struggling deeply. Completing "Baptism"--the story that follows--helped pull me back from the edge. Thank you for bearing witness to both parts of my journey. I’m grateful you’re here.

I Write to Stay Alive

When you grow up in a home built on religious control and hierarchical power—where capitalism is gospel and white supremacy its unspoken creed—you learn early what it means to be watched, judged, and shaped into someone you are not. You are told that obedience is love. That silence is safety. That your worth is conditional.

You dream of escape. You believe that if you can just break free, you’ll finally breathe. Be yourself. Live authentically.

But when you leave, you find the same systems everywhere. They weren’t just inside the home—they are the home. Woven into the state, etched into academia, sanctified in churches, cloaked in corporate slogans about “family” and “team.” The same white supremacy, the same capitalist grind, the same patriarchal god.

For those of us whose traditions were never passed down, that work becomes building something from nothing. Inventing ritual. Piecing together fragments. Listening to whispers from ancestors we’ve never been allowed to name.

When you are told again and again that who you are is wrong—unholy, unworthy, in need of fixing—you begin to question whether there’s a place for you at all. And you keep searching for a space in a world that feels just as hostile as the one you fled.

It’s hard to trust when you’ve been betrayed by those who were supposed to love you. Hard to ask for help when vulnerability once meant punishment. Hard to feel divine when everything around you insists otherwise.

I look around and I see how many structures exist solely to erase me—to brand me evil, broken, disposable. And right now, they’re winning. Trans people are under siege, and I don’t think most cis people understand how deep it goes. How it seeps into everything. Infects your dreams. Steals your will to live.

Some days, I feel like I can’t go on. And that’s when I turn to my loved ones to remind me that I’m not alone. That I’m sacred. That I’m needed. And this stokes a fire in me—a sacred refusal. The part of me that won’t go quietly, that rages at erasure, rises to the challenge of authenticity in a world that would rather see my people disappear.

This is why I write.

Because telling these stories—truths I was never allowed to speak—keeps me tethered to the present. Ironically, memoir—the act of looking back—that anchors me here. It forces me to feel, to remember, to stay alive.

And I’m not going anywhere.

Author's Note: The following memoir piece is meant to be read as a stand-alone story. That said, it’s also part of a larger collection of short stories I’ll be sharing here on The Violet Storm, with the intention of eventually publishing them as a collection. Think of this story like a single Tarot card — rich with its own meaning and symbolism, yet ultimately part of a fuller spread once the other cards (stories) are revealed. As always, thank you for reading. ~SA

“It’s your choice,” my father said. “It’s between you and the Lord.” His blue eyes looked into mine, still water under the gray sky. “Some people believe that it’s okay to baptize babies, but we believe it’s better to make these kinds of decisions when you are older, when you decide to let everyone know you are right with God.”  

Pillows propped me up, and piles of quilts smothered me, leaving only my head and arms exposed. Allergies overwhelmed me while I lay recovering from a prolonged bout of pneumonia, from which I had missed the first two weeks—and counting—of school. It was 1983. We were living in Houston, Texas, having moved there three years earlier from my father's native North Carolina. My birthday had been in the middle of the first week of September, but I’d had a doctor’s visit instead of a party, antibiotics instead of cake. I was only eleven years old, and this was my ninth time having pneumonia. This time felt worst then all the other ones.

Dad sat on the side of my bed, his hand over mine. He waited for me to say something, but the touching of our hands distracted me. He wasn’t holding mine so much as keeping it in place. I was examining the dark hair peeking out from under his shirt cuff, cascading down around his knuckles, growing in patches between each finger joint. His calluses were prickly, itching my skin.   

“Do you remember when you asked Jesus into your heart?”

I nodded because that seemed like the correct response. I prayed out loud every night with my mother. I came to the front of the church for children’s time. I knew all the Bible plays from Sunday school by heart. When did I let Jesus into my heart?

“Jesus lives in our hearts when we ask Him to,” he said. “That means you are saved.” 

“And when I die, I’ll go to Heaven!” I said, wanting to prove that I was a good boy, a proper preacher’s son. 

“Yes. But being saved and getting baptized are two different things.”

I knew that. When people are saved, they put their hands over their hearts and pray. When they are baptized, they put on a white gown, and my father dunked them in the bathtub behind the pulpit. They call out to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  

“Getting baptized means you are letting the world know that Jesus is your Lord and Savior.”

“I don’t like the bathtub in the church,” I said.

My father removed his hand from mine and rubbed his chin. 

“You don’t?”

“It smells funny.”

My father laughed. “Well, I suppose you could get baptized outside, but it’s about to be too cold for that now. And you need to get better.” He patted my knees under the blankets. I winced, and he drew his hand away. My head felt full of liquid, and I was suffering from an electric pain in my knees and ankles that the doctors called arthritis. My Nana had it too, but the doctor said it was rare for children to have it. 

My father sensed my discomfort and got up from my bed. 

“You will know when it’s time, son. I’m sure He will let you know.”

I smiled thinly and rolled my head to the side. All this talking had worn me out. I wanted to go back to sleep. My father left the room, shutting the door behind him. I retreated further under the quilts and stared at the white walls, and listened to the wind howling around the house. The window panes of the only window in my room rattled; Whistles came through the cracks in the frame. Outside, my favorite tree stood defiantly while the wind stripped it of its dried leaves. Get better soon, the maple told me. You can climb me when it’s warm again. I smiled and slid under the covers, giving in to my body’s demand for sleep.

I rolled over onto my side and coughed up phlegm into the wastebasket. I wiped the streams of snot from my mouth with a Kleenex. I’d been dreaming about swimming in the depths of the ocean again as a beautiful mer-boy. The water was warm and soothing, the colors bright and fun, and the adventures endless. Thinking about being dunked backwards into the dingy tub in my father’s church filled me with dread. There wasn’t room in there for one person, let alone a grownup and my father. Everyone I’d seen had to hold their nose and take a deep breath with their knees bent underneath them. It looked cramped. In the waking world, I have allergies. There were days I had to breathe through one nostril. No fantastic gills to save me. No infinite blue water to explore. Just a yellowed tub with rust around the faucets. Instead of rainbow scales that shimmered in the waves, I’d have to wear a thin, white gown that turned see-through when it got wet. I’d seen it before with other folks. They might as well have been naked. My cheeks turned red just thinking about it.

Last time Nana had visited, I had asked her about when she got baptized. 

“It was spring,” she said. “There were daffodils everywhere. I must have been around eight or nine years old. The lake was right outside the church. None of this bathtub business.”

“The preacher was a strong man, and he supported my back with one hand while he lifted his other to the Lord. Then, he pulled me under. Just for a second. It was over and done with before I had a chance to think about it.” 

“Did you feel different after?” 

“It was a long time ago,” she said, “but I suppose so. It’s hard to explain how exactly, but yes, I suppose I did.”

I wish I had asked Nana more questions about it then. But she was back in North Carolina and not due to visit anytime soon. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I tried to understand, but sinus pain wracked my brain, and blowing my nose rubbed the skin on my upper lip raw. I was sick of being sick.

I pushed myself up, turned on the lamp beside my bed, and put on my glasses. Next to my box of tissues and King James Bible, I had a Get Well Soon card from my Nana, magazines, and a stack of new books my mother had chosen for me from the bookmobile. I ran my fingers over the spines, feeling the embossed titles. Their pages were familiar to me, their characters a cascading parade of wonder: a teenage girl detective gathering clues, an over dressed old lady folding space and time, a dancing woman made entirely of patchwork quilts, a winter witch with a penchant for turning humans to stone. I looked forward to visiting them again. 

My mother opened my door and poked her head in. “Lights out,” she said. “You can read more tomorrow.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” I said.

After two weeks back at school, I relapsed. I was confined to my room again. I struggled to breathe while my younger sister climbed my favorite tree outside my window and caught snowflakes on her tongue. The tree waved its branches at me, sending words of comfort and wellness. Tender shoots grew within me, leaves wrapped around my heart. The detective and fantasy books lay unopened as I memorized the mythology of Egypt. Men with the heads of jackals, scarabs, and baboons. Women with elaborate horned headdresses. All of them turned to the side, profiles outlined in black, arms outstretched, hands grasping scepters and looped crosses. Symbols aligned above and below them, seeped into my mind, activating a hidden memory, a forgotten dream, a life unknown. A somber reflection filled the space, accompanied by pyramids and sphinxes. These beings provoked a reverence, a serious consideration of things outside my room, beyond the world, the stars, the galaxy. 

I died with Osiris. I wept with Isis. I searched with Nephthys. I laughed with Set. The sun shone through the blinds, cascading beams throughout my room, and Ra, the father of all things, blessed me with his power. The tree outside was no longer beyond my reach. It was out there, but also in here. I could hear the thrum of its life song, reverberating with all the objects in my room. I could feel my heartbeat resonating with the tree, the sunlight, and the books. The quilts formed a shroud of protection around me while the room bathed in golden light. I felt a presence, gentle and kind, surrounding me in love. Large gold wings wrapped around me, embracing me, and I saw the headdress of Nephthys and smiled. My face was wet. I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. I swam through seas of hieroglyphs to the darkest depths of the ocean, to the underworld below, and the gods spoke to me in whispers. 

When I woke, sweat drenched my pajamas and the layers of quilts. I could breathe normally, and the pressure in my head was gone. I sat up and looked at my room as if I were in it for the first time. I looked out at the tree outside. Yes, it said. That was real. As real as anything could ever be. 

It waw Halloween, and I was in my room, sitting on the floor with my Star Wars toys set up around me. I had lined up all the characters in front of the tree fort playset, and stared into the face of my Han Solo action figure. I tried to ignore the doorbell, but it seemed to ring every five minutes, interrupting my fantasies about flying away with my space pirate hero. Five of my sixth grade classmates lived in our neighborhood, and they were all out trick-or-treating. It was likely they would come to our door tonight. They’d be told—just just as I can hear my father telling some kids now—that Halloween is really a Satanic holiday known as “Devil’s Night,” and those who participated were devil worshippers. Then he’d hand them tiny religious comics instead of candy. It’s a good thing I didn’t have any friends to lose. 

I shake my head and return my attention to Han Solo. This figure is a different sculpt based on the character’s appearance in the second Star Wars movie. Even though I was five when I saw Star Wars in the theater, I had not been allowed to see the sequel when I was seven. “Too dark and violent,” my father had said about The Empire Strikes Back. “I read an article that said there are subliminal Satanic messages throughout.” I’d resigned myself to never seeing the movie because I knew there was no changing my father’s mind if the Devil was involved. A couple months after Empire came out, when I was playing with a neighbor’s child, I discovered a scattered collection of trading cards for the film among his toys. I cleaned out the kid’s entire closet until I could find enough cards to piece the storyline together. I was shocked to learn that the movie ended with my hero dipped into liquid and frozen, his fate unknown. Han Solo got baptized, and it looked like it had killed him! 

After that, a compulsion seized me to reenact the image on the card at home. I filled a plastic cup with water, dropped the Han Solo figure in it, and placed it in the freezer. Once frozen, I ran warm water over the plastic until I could remove the ice cube and the figure inside. Frozen baptized Han Solo starred in many of my secret storylines with my action figures. I froze him, and many other figures, so often that my mother threatened to throw them away if I didn’t stop putting my toys in her freezer. She was never a fan of the movie or my toys, calling them “ugly” and “disgusting.” 

To my surprise, my father took me to see the third Star Wars movie, Return of the Jedi, back in May. I was elated when, for my birthday a few weeks ago, I got many of the toys.

I didn’t understand the turnaround, but when I witnessed my hero alive and well after his dark baptism, and saw teddy bear creatures defeat the evil empire, I could see no reason for Satanic criticism. My father seemed to agree. My mother had grimaced when I opened my new toys. When I thanked her and my father, she said, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

I had been too sick to play with my new toys until now, but I’d taken to keeping Han Solo with me at my bedside. When I got better, I decided to take him to school, but my mother stopped me. “School is for learning,” she said, “not for toys.” She raised an eyebrow at me when she saw which one it was. Disapproval blanketed her face. The air was thick with judgment. I grew to understand that my love for Han Solo was of a forbidden sort, but hero worship, which my father felt was natural for a boy, disguised it well. But he was never home, and when I was, my mother watched my every move. 

How could I explain what Han Solo meant to me? He was cocky, self-assured. He had a spaceship and a tall, hairy creature as his best friend, whose guttural sounds he understood. He lived by the seat of his pants. He took risks. He made unwise choices. Better yet, he had the freedom to make them. I was most envious of that. When he smiled, it was a half-smile, lip curled, head tilted as if to say, “I know I’m awesome. You know it, too.” And he was handsome. Rugged, dastardly handsome. This was the best part. And the worst. Because the feelings that he stirred within me were appearing elsewhere. At school, whenever I was near a boy named Jon. 

Jon played tennis. He wore corduroy shorts, Izod shirts, and had his hair cut in spiky chunks on top and short on the sides. He was a year older than me—everyone in my school was, since my mother had placed me directly into first grade, skipping kindergarten altogether—and he seemed to be developing faster than the other guys. He certainly was the first boy in school to start wearing cologne—Drakkar Noir—and he always had an earthy, musky aroma about him. After school, his tennis coach picked him up in a red sports car. We sat next to each other in Mrs. Bergmeyer's English class, and when we had to share textbooks, he'd slid his desk next to mine. Whenever I saw him, he always said hello. I’d search for what to say, but by the time the words floated out of my mouth, he was packing up his books and tennis racket, and heading off to the next thing. Jon always had somewhere to go. He didn’t waste any time. I envied that about him. I was never in a hurry because there was nowhere I wanted to be. 

Then one day, Jon asked if I wanted to spend the night at his house.  

“We could eat pizza, play games, watch some movies,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, my voice a squeaky mouse toy in my ears. “That’d be cool.”

I begged my parents to let me go , making it a point to mention that Jon was popular, that he played sports. My mother remained unconvinced.

“But his parents divorced,” she said to my father, that eyebrow raised again. 

“What kind of sports does he play?” asked my father.

We were on the couch in the basement rec room of Jon’s house. Watching tennis. Two large speakers connected to the TV, radio, record and tape players. An air hockey table, an arcade game, and a pool table fought for dominance behind the rusty, orange couch. The wood paneling reeked of pine, mingled in the air with the pepperoni pizza that Jon’s dad ordered for us. “You have a good time, sports!” he’d told us after vigorously shaking my hand. He was upstairs, talking on the phone. “He never comes down here,” Jon assured me. 

I looked over at Jon and examined his profile. His nose and jawline reminded me of sculptures I’d seen in books about the pharaoh Akhenaten. He switched channels with the remote. Half-naked girls, their bikini tops tied around their waists, tossed a beach ball around in a pool. Their breasts jiggled each time they hugged each other. They giggled instead of talking. 

“Whadya think of this movie?” asked Jon.

I shrugged, trying to grasp any semblance of a story from the boobfest. I looked over at Jon, and his eyes were riveted to the screen. I watched his Adam’s apple rise up and down as he swallowed. His shorts looked tighter. I thought about what he looked like after he played tennis, his wet Polo shirt clinging to his thin body. I wished we were in a pool, hugging like the girls on TV. Jon’s dad has a pool. 

“They’re hot, huh?” he asked, and I looked into his eyes. They’re twinkling, almost winking. He’s smiling. He chewed on his bottom lip, and I swallowed. I felt something rising from somewhere deep within me, and I swallowed again, pushing it back down. I imagined it drowning inside me. 

“Yeah,” I lied, “Not much of a story here, huh?”

“Are you kidding me? These girls don’t need stories. They just need to be hot. My dad gets all the porn channels, but he won’t let me watch the good stuff.”

I shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Watching Jon get excited made me hard. I prayed he wouldn’t notice, that he’d think I liked the girls. Then I felt guilty about praying. My mother says if you think a sin, it’s just as bad as committing it, and I think, in that case, I might as well reach out and touch Jon. See if he’d respond. But something tells me he won’t. That he’s not like me. Even though we’re here alone, unsupervised, watching soft porn together, our erections straining in our corduroy shorts. This means something else to him. 

“You’re not into this, huh?” he asked. 

I stared at him, trapped by the buzz of the TV and his eyes. 

“I-I-It’s cool,” I stammered. 

“I know. Next to real porn, this is nothing.” He clicked off the TV. 

That night, we ate pizza and played board games, listening to the raucous music of Quiet Riot and The Rolling Stones. We slept in separate sleeping bags on the shag carpet floor of the rec room, and in the morning, Jon’s dad made us pancakes and then took me home in his Camaro. I evaded my mother’s questions and went straight to my room. I started a diary that night, sobbing while I wrote about Jon and what might have been. I wrote his name many times next to mine in a vain ritual to bring us closer together. 

 A week later, I found my diary in the top drawer of my dresser instead of the bottom one where I’d left it. I shook as I realized my mother knew my secret. But at dinner, she acted like nothing had changed, as if she didn’t know. For weeks leading up to Christmas, she kept up the act, so I pretended, too. We moved around the house like strangers, speaking to each other through masks. 

The night before Christmas, I was in bed, staring at the ceiling. Though the house was dark, my eyes had adjusted, and I could make out the shapes of the furniture and my room’s doorway. I listened for other sounds, but the house was silent. Time to enact my plan. I walked with focused intention toward the living room, where the Christmas tree lights cast rainbow hues on beige walls. I held in my hand a small action figure of Yoda, the wizened, green Jedi Master, a symbol of mentorship and wisdom. I solemnly approached the nativity set arranged on a small folding table nearby. Mary and Joseph looked adoringly upon little baby Jesus in his straw bed, while shepherds and wise men flanked them. Attached to the roof, a winged figure hovered with arms outstretched. It was a sacred scene, and I needed its holy power. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, and I wiped them away with my arm.

I took a deep breath and let it out without a sound. I plucked baby Jesus from his manger and placed Yoda in his stead. It felt like a fair trade. I needed baby Jesus to lend me his power on the night of his birth. I would switch the figures back in the morning.

Back in my room, wrapped in my sheets, I kissed the crown of our Lord and Savior’s head and placed him under my pillow. I stared up toward Heaven. “Please, Baby Jesus," I whispered. "Make me not like boys. Take these thoughts away.” For once, the darkness felt like a blanket, an embrace. I rolled ont my side, smiling, hopeful. 

I woke to hands gripping me, shaking me, and the shrill sound of my mother’s voice hissing at me. “Luke! What have you done with Baby Jesus?

Still half asleep, I shifted my shoulders and wrenched myself free of her grasp. Mother glared at me, her face a deep crimson. I slid my arm under my pillow and found the little figurine exactly where I had placed it during the night. I held it up in the air at her, brandishing it like a priest would a cross. She snatched him from my hand. 

“How dare you steal Baby Jesus and replace him with this abomination!” She held the Yoda action figure in her other hand. I reached for him, but she closed her fist around him and stood up. 

“Oh no, you don’t. You’re not getting this back. This Star Wars nonsense has gone too far. In fact, I will be collecting these toys right now!” She flew out of my room. Before I could rouse myself more fully awake, she was back with a large black garbage bag. I was horrified as she snatched up my X-Wing Tie Fighter and threw it into the plastic bag.  

“No! Mom, no! This isn’t fair!” I sobbed. I was just borrowing him. I was trying to do what they wanted, be who they wanted, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to make her understand. 

“Your father and I have been very lenient in letting you have these toys, but that was a mistake. Obviously, they have distracted you from the Gospel so much that you would defile the manger with that green demon? Sacrilege!”

I jumped out of bed, still pleading with her, but she was having none of it. She tossed my forest village playset into the bag. It hit the ground with a plastic crunch. I winced. She picked up Jabba the Hutt and made a sound of disgust as she discarded him, too. When she turned her back to me, I looked around the room to see if I could rescue something, anyone, out of her current range. My eyes darted to my favorite Han Solo figure, standing guard on my nightstand. Maybe she wouldn’t see him. But then, as if she had read my very thoughts, she turned around, and saw him, too. She lumbered over to my bed, dragging the trash bag, now bursting with my toys. I held my breath. An ache spread throughout my chest.

“Oh no,” she said. “You’re especially not keeping him.” 

Her eyes locked onto mine. There was a moment of silence where we just stared at each other. I tried my best to look impassive, but the tears leaking from my eyes betrayed my heartache. She had read my diary. She knew. 

She tossed Han Solo in the black plastic bag so hard it sounded like he broke.

“I’ll be back for the rest. In the meantime, you get yourself washed and dressed. You’re spending Christmas in your room, thinking about what you’ve done. You need to pray for forgiveness after the way you disrespected Jesus on His birthday.”

I said nothing. I ran to the bathroom and turned on the water in the bathtub. Once inside it, my tears flowed into the water. I cried without making a sound, my breath shallow, my body shaking. Baby Jesus hadn’t helped me. God ignored my prayers. Lying on my back in the tub, I felt a sudden shift when the hot water ran out, and the cold rushed in, chilling my skin, traveling into my blood, my bones, until an icy numbness settled in my chest. As the cold spread, my arms and legs drifted away from me. I was divided, splintered into pieces. Goose pimples erupted all over my shoulders and neck as the sensation overwhelmed me. I panicked, thrashed in the water until my toes found the metal chain of the rubber stopper and yanked it out. As the water swirled down the drain, feeling slowly returned to my body. I sat up, cupped the water in my hands, and splashed it on my face. 

While I toweled off, my image in the mirror stared at me accusingly. I shrugged. I was resigned to my fate. This would be a long and miserable day, just like all the other times I’d been grounded. I had no choice but to follow the restrictions as best I could, knowing that anything could set Mother off, and most likely would. 

I spent the day in my room, mostly sitting in the space where my toys used to be. I searched for something she might have missed, but she’d been thorough. I could hear my family opening their presents. I picked up a volume from my Encyclopedia Britannica and read more about Ancient Egypt. Again I found the story of Isis and Nephthys gathering the scattered pieces of Osiris from the Nile, how they brought him back to life and made him whole again. I wished someone could make me whole too. 

The sun was setting when my dad came in and told me he’d set aside a plate. Mother was in her bedroom. My sister was in hers. I tried to eat, but the turkey turned to sawdust in my mouth. The cranberry sauce tasted sour. The green beans felt slimy. I was hungry, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat. My dad noticed and poured me a glass of milk. I drank it in one long swallow. He took my plate and motioned me back to my room. I read the Osiris resurrection story over and over again until it was time for bed. 

The next day, I woke to find everyone had already eaten breakfast. Once I saw that it was just Christmas dinner leftovers, I was grateful I missed it. They’re all dressed to go out. Mother comes to my room.

“We’re taking your sister to the mall to exchange some clothes she received from your Nana. You stay away from the tree. I haven’t decided whether to give you your presents.”

When they left, I heaved a great sigh. I didn’t care that they went without me. I was relieved to be alone in the house. The magical spell of Christmas was broken. The colors no longer mesmerized. The nativity set stood sterile and listless. I glanced at my unopened presents under the tree, and I felt nothing. I didn’t care what they were, or if I’ll ever get them. All I could see is Mother with that black trash bag, taking my toys. Nothing she gives me is ever truly mine. It’s better not to get attached. 

I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sat at the table, thinking about my dreams from last night. I stood on the shore of the Nile and watched it rise and fall with the seasons. I saw Isis and Nephthys bathing in the deep waters, gathering the scattered pieces of Osiris. The parallels between his resurrection and the story of Jesus felt important, somehow. Their stories echoed each other. But only one still spoke to me. 

I went back to my room, but it didn’t feel like mine anymore. It had been invaded. I wasn’t sure how to interact with anything in it. And I couldn’t shake the feeling of being disgraced. Outside my window the maple swayed in a gentle dance, catching my attention. Your dreams are more than dreams, it told me. They hold the key to a new beginning.

I smiled and nodded at the maple tree. In my mind, I thanked it for the counsel. I knew what I had to do. 

I run the water in the bathtub and get in. The hot water runs out again, but I don’t care. I lie back in the cooling water, hold my nose, and dunk my entire body. The sound of the rushing water fills my senses. I am in the Nile with the goddesses. I let Nephthys and Isis collect the disparate parts of me. I ask them to make me whole. 

My father will never know, for I will never tell him, but Jesus does not live in my heart. He wasn’t there when I needed him, and I no longer have any use for him. The goddesses are in my heart now. I believe that they always were. They inspire me with their sisterly devotion. They love me unconditionally. Their wings wrap around me now like they did when I was sick. Golden and vibrant, peaceful and calm, they healed me once. And they make me whole again. 

In this bathtub, I baptize myself. And I am reborn.

~SA