A Letter to My Sister: On Hope

My sister and I (Amicalola Falls, Georgia, April 2024)

I wrote this to my sister but never published it until now. It came from a moment of deep reflection, grief, and hope.

I don’t believe everyone will change—but I believe it is possible.

This letter is a testament to that belief.

01-09-2026

Hey Krystal,

Can you believe it’s already a new year? And we’re off, not even 10 days in, and the U.S. has already decided to kidnap the Venezuelan president, escalate ownership rhetoric with Greenland under Denmark protection (and therefore under NATO protection)—a move that has the potential to set off WWIII**, and continue to lie to our faces—when we have video evidence from multiple angles—of ICE murdering U.S. citizen, Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis—praying we’ll forget the Epstein files. I remember how brutal Trump’s last presidency felt in 2016, especially with the pandemic, and now there’s a play-by-play manual, Project 2025, of how to dismantle the United States to create a “Christian” nation. It erodes the very principles of what made America the dream of hope. 

As I was hiking the Appalachian Trail, I was filled with complete awe. From the Pacific Northwest’s Half Dome and Mount Whitney, to the 14er’s like Long’s Peak in Colorado, to Blood Mountain, home of the immortal spirit people, in Georgia, no wonder why this land inspired hope. When I say I love this land, tears come to my eyes flooded with the memories—the smell, the taste, all of it—of the wonders this land offers. I remember our family’s early morning hikes in Arizona—woken up at 4 or 5am to go hiking. But as we summited the red Sedona mountains or the Superstitions, we’d look out at, still, the most gorgeous sunrises I have ever seen. 

And when I’m away from you, traveling or presently living in Spain, I remember huddling in a tent with you, running around in a pirate tricorn chasing Onyx, and my beloved chosen family in San Francisco. I miss you all so dearly and I wish I could return home—even to visit. But, when we are desperate, we can put hope in the wrong things—in the wrong people. 

Sometimes, if only just for the sake of change and America needs to change. But wow, change is so difficult when we remember all the ways things used to be.  There’s so many of us who remember when life felt easier, felt lighter… felt like we had united values. And maybe, that’s such a privileged nostalgic memory growing up in a middle class home, surrounded by white families—the reality of heavily segregated neighborhoods in Arizona with a church on every corner. 

The sad reality is, I didn’t have a chance to make a black friend until I was in high school.  The sad reality is, my social studies teacher gave a lecture on why Mexicans outside laying bricks weren’t lazy—and it was needed. I needed that lecture and I still remember that lecture from Mr.Bracken. The sad reality is many kids didn’t have a place to go after school. So we all hung out in Mr.Huber’s classroom learning how to imagine ourselves as wizards or paladins or even rogues playing dungeons and dragons. And that saved a lot of kid’s lives. But we still lost some and it’s easy to imagine. I remember my friends jumping from house to house, even my best friend Caleb, because their parents found him with his best friend and was sent to conversion therapy. The horror of not having a place where you could be free! I think that’s why I have such a strong love for the wilderness—it’s a place I can truly be free. 

And to think, so many want to return to a place of ‘strong values’, where their children don’t learn about diversity, where through raising ourselves ‘by the bootstraps’ could provide your family with a house and a white picket fence. 

And still I remember who I was. I think that’s one of the reasons my depression lasted so long. I remember being a gun touting, “one of the guys”, all American Republican ‘girl’ who marched one foot into front of the other—fuck everyone else—I’m smarter than you and I can do anything. And I remember the look of pride dad gave me. I remember even school papers I submitted on why every American should own a gun and how to practice gun safety. I remember submitting papers on why Jesus was my hero. I wore dog tags—a soldier in Christ.

And then… I met people— I met friends. I became friends with people I wasn’t entirely sure I should be ashamed of or not. They were wonderful, beautiful people who had fantastical imaginations, wit, and thought provoking questions… and yet, I was told not to be friends with them. I remember all the times our parents screamed at you for who your friends or boyfriends were. I didn’t understand why my friends were getting the same judgement. 

Now, I do. 

Because I started asking questions. 

It was so scary and it became scarier. Why can’t I be friends with this super smart and fun girl who happens to be a lesbian? Wasn’t Jesus also friends with ‘sinners’? Wait, why can’t I learn about my body? Why can’t women have the right to choose? What if funds are tight? What if they want to focus on their careers? What if their partner’s were abusive and needed means to leave? And suddenly, I was asking more questions. Why are we insisting to learn creationism in science class—insisting the world is a mere 600 thousand years old when scientists have repeatedly, through the scientific peer-reviewed methods of carbon-dating, discovered the world is not millions, but billions of years old? Why does our dad, who I used to watch science documentaries and read National Geographic magazines with, now believe dinosaurs were put here by demons? Why are we preparing for the end times and pointing at every natural disaster as evidence when the book of Revelations made it plain, no one can predict it? And if they do, be weary of false prophets. And the deconstruction began…

And then I was struggling. I was struggling with so much. Absolutely wrecked by my Meniere’s disease diagnosis—vertigo on top of nearly complete hearing loss in my right ear. Our parents provided zero support. After all, by then both you and I were living in San Francisco—‘the devil’s city’. I realized all that earlier support… that was fun and games but now, after the 3rd attempt to convince me to have an arranged marriage, my place was supposed to be back home with a husband having kids. I was so scared. I was so scared this happened because I turned away from ‘God’. Now, I know the impact chronic stress can have on a body and why I found myself cycling through deeper and deeper pits of depression. 

Bam! The run up to the 2016 Presidential election. And I saw dad not only back Trump but also tell me, “don’t ask questions. Questions get you killed. Do not protest.” Not just dad but all of our extended Korean family members. I saw fear of the government in dad’s eyes. But weren’t we collecting hoards of guns so we could speak truth to power? Weren’t we constantly chirping, “the government can pry our guns from our cold, dead hands?” And shouldn’t we believe and stand up for women? Shouldn’t we elect someone who inspires us—inspires children—to be our best selves? But instead, why the hell is our dad, a devoted Christian man, rooting for a man who proudly gleams, “grab em by the pussy!” All I wanted to yell was “dad! What if that were me? Or Krystal?” I was already struggling with gender. I had been struggling with it since I was a child. My curves were my hellscape that held me back and not even dad— who taught me how to shoot guns, change oil, and analyze circuits—cared if a man “grabbed me by the pussy.” Not just that, he was voting to elect this man president?  And our aunt and uncle, they have daughters—them too? 

Not voting for a woman who yes, has done awful things, but would still keep things status quo for women. But for a man who actively, enthusiastically, proclaimed he sexually assaulted women. Why? Because Trump was a ‘republican’. Trump “was anti-abortion”. 

I lost dad. 

And I lost hope. 

I lost hope in dreaming. 

My depression stopped cycling. It was there from morning to night and in my dreams. I became lost in flashbacks of all the ways being a girl was this never-ending hell. All the times mom grabbed my chest and mocked me. All the times she corrected others when they mistook me as a boy, even though I was smiling inside. All the times she told me I meant nothing because I wasn’t first born and wasn’t a boy and wouldn’t see any inheritance. The time she wanted me to pretend to be her boyfriend since, after all, “don’t you want to be a boy?” And other times I don’t want to remember… My mind circled the near daily screaming that was in our household. Our big house—a perfect facade for a picture perfect Christian family. 

Here I was, a woman in STEM, bright and determined with shackled dreams chained to my body and dad was enforcing them. Enforcing them. Enforcing chains for his daughters. Enforcing chains for a body I didn’t want to be in, for a body I couldn’t pursue my dreams in, for a body who if some man raped me and impregnated me, the president would look at my rapist and say, “well done.”

I hated my body and I became scared of my mind. And Krystal, you were there for all of that. You cleaned my apartment when there were mountains of dishes in the sink and I couldn’t even tie my shoes. In fact, I had forgotten how to. I wore sip up boots because I didn’t have the mental energy to remember how to tie shoes. You were there taking me to the movie theater just to get out of the apartment while I cried, believing if I went outside, our parents would find me and force me to come back to Arizona and, ultimately, force me into a marriage where I wouldn’t be able to escape our mother. You were there trying to give me ‘hard talks’ hoping some words would land and I’d snap out of it.  

I don’t remember any of those words. 

I was trapped. There was this abyss of sadness. My heart hurt so much it was unbearable. My heart hurt so much, I could fall asleep getting a tattoo because that somehow felt like relief. And I tried so hard looking for external things to help me feel better. Antidepressant after antidepressant and sobbing after TMS because I had resorted to shocking my beautiful brain hoping that would fix the pain I was in.

But I do remember you being there.

And I remember you being there when you and my partner-at-the-time intervened and pieced together what I couldn’t—my years of writing questioning my gender. My partner, “I know women, even my sister, who have been sexually abused. But they still want to be women!” 

And that unlocked everything. 

It unlocked my dreams. 

And god, dreams are everything. 

When you no longer see yourself in dreams… when you can’t see yourself in dreams… 

How can you hope? 

And I wanted to be there when you gave birth to Onyx. I didn’t want to leave this planet without knowing him. And I realized the only way I could do that, be here—alive, was to transition. Everything else—failed.

And I thought I’d lose you too. But, after telling you I was starting testosterone, you were still there. Within two weeks of being on T, I was in awe and shock, “normal people just go around feeling like this? They can see color? I can see color now!” And after telling you I wanted top surgery, a mastectomy, you were still there. 

And you saw my mood improve.  

I moved closer to friends and my health improved. My recovery wasn’t linear but I discovered so much about myself along the way and my memory is coming back. You saw me go from someone who couldn’t tie their own shoes to someone who was going to concerts several times a month and getting a raise! Now, I’ve backpacked Europe and 500 miles on the Appalachian Trail—where I learned peeing with a prosthetic fixed my urinary issues—and now I’m living in Spain! I’m healing through daily yoga and I can see my pecs coming in and it’s super exciting!

But we see the world around us… and the very thing that let me live to hold Onyx is seen as a sexual deviance—a sly used car salesman tricking honest people… tricking women… harming children. 

We see the hate born from not taking the time to understand systems. We see the fear as we scroll through millions of videos and comments. We find ourselves in a pit of doom. 

Where is the hope? 

You asked me the other day to manifest some money so you can come visit me soon since, due to the nature of our government, it’s not safe to visit you. I sent you a John Green video I recently watched recently on ‘hope’ and you asked me what hope meant for me. 

I share all of that to share what hope means to me. 

Do I have hope? 

Do I have hope I can return and hug and kiss you and Onyx? 

Do I have hope you will ‘manifest’ some money so you can come visit soon?

Absa-fucking-lutely. 

Even though I don’t like the word ‘manifest’—I always think of ‘manifest destiny’, the 19th-century belief white Americans were divinely ordained to expand across the continent—an ideology that justified genocide, displacement, and domination in the name of ‘destiny’. When people think in absolute certainty of the future, we have a propensity for ignoring the perspectives and lives of others. We get lost in the narrative we’re trying to create instead of just being. And I get it—manifestation can feel like hope in action. But we must stay grounded in what is real. Just like dad, and so many others, are trying to manifest a Christian nation to bring about the end times. A fundamentally flawed dream due to the nature of the death of gods—gods die when the people stop believing in them and start believing only in the structures around them. The chapels and priests, become so big that belief dies— ultimately killing the god.  

“Belief, he says. Belief shifts. People start out believing in the god and end up believing in the structure… Around the Godde there forms a Shelle of prayers and Ceremonies and Buildings and Priestes and Authority, until at Last the Godde Dies.”

― Terry Pratchett, Small Gods 

But I believe in you ability to capture stories through symbols and paint them in such a clear and beautiful way, even a person with limited exposure to art can understand. I believe in your ability to visualize objects and emotions. I believe in your ability to rally people towards meaning and towards a community. You’re someone who wants to feel everything and everyone and because of that, people find resonance. 

I believe in you. 

So what does hope mean?

Hope to me means one day I can return to you, Onyx, and my chosen family again. 

Hope means someone like me, with a history of sexual abuse, can heal and live a full life. 

Hope means someone like me, can find love again. 

Hope means tackling hard problems.

Hope means remembering we have tools.

Hope means looking at everything around us and still choosing to see the good in people. 

Hope means believing someone so small, like me or a child, can make a difference—can help awaken others.

Hope means saying “I am here and this is hard but it will pass” but also, “I have agency to move and hold myself accountable.” Because I can be the change I want to see.

Hope means believing in people power.

Hope means choosing humanity. 

Hope means valuing art and writing and expression.

Hope means learning from nature and those around us.

Hope means taking care of our neighbors and remembering them— 

Especially when life is tough for us.

Hope means remembering there is more than one solution to everything. 

More than one way forward.

Hope means remembering how far we’ve come.

Hope means I trust myself and others to learn from this.

Hope means looking at both the past and the present and asking ourselves what we can do today for the future we’d like to see. 

Hope is a choice but it is also a continuous action.

I think sometimes we can put hope in wrong things— 

A relationship. 

A job.

 Holding out hoping it will get better—

That they’ll change for us. 

But only we can change ourselves. 

Hope means jumping— 

Taking a leap of faith on ourselves— 

That we can fall and catch ourselves 

And when we do fall— 

We can stand back up.

Hope means valuing yourself— 

And others.

Hope means maybe you’re tired— 

Injured— 

Chronically ill—

But believing you will dance one day. 

Maybe… not even with your legs— 

But in your body— 

And soul.

Hope means knowing life goes on. This earth creates wonderfully, beautiful things and is bigger than us. Hope is remembering simultaneously how small we and our problems are. How many of our problems are just illusions keeping us distracted. To look to see with gratitude that we have food, water, shelter, and loved ones. To hope is to dream we will continue on spending time with the ones we love. 

When I’m in a downpour, the mud clings to my feet and weighs me down but I can choose to be weighed down or I can jump from puddle to puddle. I can look to see and learn from those around me how to move more efficiently or if I need to slow down or stop to conserve energy.  I have hope I will reach the summit and when I do, I can see the beauty of everything around me. The mountain gives me hope. 

But you don’t stay on the summit. Lightning strikes and you can’t play and run around safely. 

We join in our community in the plains—abundant in food. 

And when those get flooded or dry out,

We move together towards nourishment. 

Those of us go ahead—

Dreaming of a better tomorrow,

We climb mountains—

Feet blistered,

Nails blackened.

Watching birds—

Listening—

So we can bring down hope—

For those who cannot climb. 

Mountains give us hope. 

To hope is to dream. 

To hope is to move. 

To hope is to climb. 

To hope is to share—

A bigger dream. 

Love you always,

Your brother,

Rex

**The U.S. already maintains substantial military infrastructure in Greenland, and Trump’s public rhetoric about purchasing the island overlays a strategic pattern: reduce current presence, claim vulnerability, and then reassert the need for control. This playbook mirrors other moments in U.S. history where ‘security’ was used as a justification for imperial expansion. Any attempt by the U.S. to pressure or control the region could trigger a crisis among allies

This journal is not about tidy stories. It’s about gathering around a fire—with grief, with hope, with stories that ache and heal. The hearth is where we remember who we are, who we’ve been, and who we might become.