“What I didn’t know then, making a casual joke about ‘hoes’ that my husband didn’t find funny, was that my words revealed more about my own brokenness than anyone else’s sins.”

The Story

I asked my husband if he wanted to walk the dog with me. He glanced out the window at the gloomy sky and shook his head. “It’s nasty out there,” he said, turning back to what he was doing.

“Nasty is defined by the hoe who did it,” I quipped, waiting for him to laugh. Instead, he rolled his eyes, clearly not finding my attempt at humor as brilliant as I thought it was. I grabbed the leash, clipped it to the dog’s collar, and left him behind as I hopped in the car with my dog to head to the woods path I loved.

The rhythm of my footsteps on the damp forest trail created space for my mind to wander. I thought about my offhand joke, about judgment, about the story I’d heard countless times in church—Jesus standing between an accused woman and her stone-wielding accusers, saying, “Let he who has no sin throw the first stone.”

For a long time, I didn’t understand that story. I mean, I guess it made sense not to throw stones at the “whore.” But I didn’t get it. Not really. It was just another Bible story, something that happened to other people in another time. My mom had said that she grew up poor and was teased a lot. I could understand that kind of judgment and pain. But I didn’t get that I was the one throwing the stones—both at others and at myself.

The woods were quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the sound of my dog sniffing along the path. As we walked deeper into the forest, I wasn’t thinking about anyone else’s stories. I was thinking about my own—the times I’d been both the one judged harshly and the harsh judge, the condemner and the condemned.

I took in a deep breath. I realized that the world I see today—truly “SEE”—is simpler and yet more complex. I am the judge, and I am judged more harshly by me than anyone else. When I am in this healing space, I am loved and love more intensely than I ever thought possible. Somewhere along that walk, I became grateful, humbled. I was able to see that as a result of doing this healing journey, of feeling my feelings and focusing on me instead of other people, I had stopped throwing rocks. I had learned a different level of compassion both for me and for others.

What I Didn’t Know Then

What I didn’t know then was that my casual jokes revealed the very judgment I was trying to escape. As a gay man who had been judged so harshly by others—and by myself—I had unconsciously adopted the same weapons. My recovery wasn’t just about stopping self-destructive behaviors; it was about laying down the stones I had been throwing at myself and others.

What I didn’t know then was that healing requires feeling everything—not just the comfortable emotions, but the shame, the guilt, the anger. Recovery taught me that judgment is often just a shield against our own pain, a way to avoid feeling the vulnerability that comes with being fully human. My joke about “hoes” was a remnant of that old armor I was still wearing.

What I didn’t know then was that compassion begins with honesty. The biblical story wasn’t about perfect people versus sinners—it was about recognizing we are all the same, all wounded, all capable of both judgment and redemption. True healing happens when we can stand in that circle, put down our stones, and see ourselves in everyone else.

Closing Reflection

Today, as a recovering Catholic, I understand that the power greater than myself doesn’t require me to be in a church to connect. That power lives in the moments when I can hold my own contradictions with compassion—when I can acknowledge that I have been both the stone-thrower and the condemned, and that healing comes not from separating these parts but from bringing them together with love.

My failed joke to my husband was a small moment, but it revealed how much further I have to go in my healing journey. The insanity of my life before recovery wasn’t just in the obviously destructive behaviors—it was also in the subtle ways I separated myself from others through judgment. True recovery means feeling everything, owning everything, and loving every part of myself and others without the distance that judgment creates.