The Email that Broke Me - and How I Chose to Rebuild

Sixteen years ago today, I received an email that changed my life.

It didn’t just shake me – it cracked open everything I thought I knew. About family. About love. About resilience.

About who I really was.

An email in which my dad admitted his prayer for me: that I would repent...or die.

But today, I don’t mourn that moment – I celebrate it.

Because rather than letting it break me, I let it rebuild me.

The Email

It was April 30, 2009.

I was sitting in the basement of Cornell's Sage Chapel with my friend, Dara, scrolling through Facebook and pondering whether we would forever find ourselves as funny as we did then (spoiler: we still do).

That’s when the notification popped up: an email from my dad.

Subject line: "Phone and"

I opened it instinctively, holding my breath as I read about being removed from the family phone plan and how "my friend" would never be welcome in their home.

Not unexpected, given his initial response to my third and final coming out just a few days prior (full story for another day).

But when I reached the final line — the final line — it felt as though I stepped into someone else's story.

Fiction.

Certainly not my life. Not my own dad praying for my death.

My response? I let out a laugh so loud and unexpected, Dara jumped in her seat.

Not because it was funny, but because it was so surreal.

"You just have to laugh," I said, as tears filled Dara’s eyes.

I had been close with my dad. I was, as my brothers often joked, his favorite son. We shared jokes, deep conversations, and a special bond that felt all our own.

So his response after I came out wasn’t just painful — it felt unrecognizable.

Crisis Response Mode

The months that followed were a blur of survival.

Find a new phone plan, obviously. Find a place to live. Find a job (or two or three) to make ends meet. Find a way to stay enrolled at Cornell without my parents’ support.

I threw everything I had into figuring it out, pretending that my body could carry me through on sheer will alone.

Until one day, it couldn’t.

A doctor’s visit in late August revealed two things. The first was that I was recovering from mono. ("You know, most students come to the doctor when symptoms begin, not when they're fading...")

The second? I was showing clear and concerning signs of depression.

The doctor referred me to a campus therapist named Dr. Ken Cohen.

And though I didn’t know it then, that referral would change everything.

The Turning Point

It was in Dr. Ken's office that I learned survival wasn’t my only option.

I wasn’t powerless. I wasn’t doomed to repeat old patterns.

Ken taught me how to notice my emotions instead of deflecting or avoiding them. He gently but clearly pointed out how I used humor whenever vulnerability got too close to the surface.

Perhaps more importantly, he helped me start asking new questions: Who did I want to become? What did I value, apart from perceived expectations? How did I want to move through the world from that point forward?

It was the beginning of a journey I’m still walking — sixteen years later — toward self-acceptance, authenticity, and creating a life I’m truly proud of living.

The Full Picture: Love Was Always There

At the time — and for years after — I thought I was surviving alone.

In reality, love was everywhere, but I wasn't really noticing it. My brain wasn't quite yet primed to process and appreciate that part of my experience.

But the reality was that I didn't just find a place to live: my boyfriend’s family offered me a home when I had none, all-expense paid.

I didn't just find a job or two: my managers at the music library, Lenora Schneller and Dr. Cayenna Ponchione-Bailey, rearranged schedules, lent me a car, and found odd jobs around town so I could stay afloat.

I didn't just pass the time: my friends checked in often, showered me with support, and traveled from around the country to visit and ensure I wasn't alone.

And in the end, I didn’t even have to fight Cornell alone: my mom, heartbroken but lovingly determined, secretly submitted the paperwork needed for my financial aid just hours before the deadline. My dad, never the wiser.

As my dad often warned us growing up: life was unfair. But I've come to learn that's not the full story.

Yes, life is sometimes unfair and occasionally cruel. But life is also loving and beautiful.

Even when the storms hit hardest, kindness finds a way to shine through the darkness.

Love Comes Full Circle

Healing didn’t happen overnight.

It took years of small steps, hard conversations, roughly three tons of patience, and just a dash or two of forgiveness.

But love — real love — prevailed.

Before my dad passed away in July 2014, we had more than reconciled.

We laughed again. We talked like we used to. We reconnected with each other on the other side of the pain.

His last words to me?

"John, I love ya. I have always loved you, and I will always love you."

I believed him, because I knew it was true.

Fear may have been in control for a time, but love worked its way back in.

Why Today Is a Celebration

Today, I have a calendar hold that repeats every year: "'phone and' anniversary."

But it’s not a day to mourn the email, to grieve the experience, or to wallow in heartbreak.

Today, I reflect and I celebrate.

I celebrate the resilience it revealed within me. I celebrate the community that lifted me when I couldn’t lift myself. And I celebrate the life my dad's email helped me to begin creating.

Because that email may very well have marked the end of everything I thought I knew.

But it also marked the beginning of a better path forward: a life rooted in intentionality, authenticity, compassion, courage, and relentless hope.

A life grounded in love.

Final Thoughts

If there’s anything I hope you take from my story, it’s this:

When life feels unfair, unkind, or unbearable — please take a deep breath and notice.

Kindness may be closer than you think.

Strength may be quietly growing inside you.

Love may be finding new ways to reach and inspire you.

And maybe someday, you’ll find yourself looking back with gratitude for the very thing you thought would break you.

Because, as it turns out, it was helping you become the person you were always meant to be.

P.S. I love you, too, daddyo.

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If this story resonated with you and you're ready to begin rewriting your own story of strength and resilience, I'd love to support you along the journey. Schedule your first coaching session today!