The battle began before I was born into this world. Prior to my mother going into labor, the nurses were taking bets on how big I would be.

There was already excitement around the possibility that I would begin life outside of the normal percentile, set apart and special. But what they didn’t realize that day was that they were also placing an expectation on me that wasn’t mine to hold. What was behind that excitement? Who did they need me to become? I was born on an Air Force base in upstate NY, measuring in at 24 inches and 10.5 pounds. I was taken home and placed in a laundry basket because I didn’t fit in the infant crib, I was too big.

For as long as I can remember, I have always had ambivalence towards my physical presence, my body and my beauty. I have felt that my physical presence has distracted, or in some cases, prevented others from seeing who I am deep down. One of my favorite pictures of myself is a picture of me when I was about 5 or 6 years old. I had on worn overalls with large patches on both knees. When my mother told me that she was going to patch the holes, I had asked her if she could sew on big red hearts. That boy was a sweet, sensitive and kind boy, with so much hope and love to share. If you have ever seen Care Bears, I was the Tenderheart Bear, overflowing with love to offer to anyone and everyone around. I remember waiting in my backyard one rainy day waiting for the rainbow to carry me away so that I could be with them. There was this deep knowing of who I was in that moment, a desire to freely live out of who I was made to be. My connection to this character was obviously a significant portion of the inspiration behind the heart patches on those worn pants. And maybe there’s greater symbolism here, but that boy knew who he was, and he wasn’t yet afraid of it being known.

I have always desired for people to know who I am, but rarely has it felt safe enough to do so. As a child, growing up in New York, I could constantly feel the threat of the environment around me. I learned quickly that it was not a place that I could bring out those more tender parts of me. So slowly, over time, I began to hide and shut down those parts. And to protect myself, I became something else. I had already gained an awareness of the perception that people had of me by then. I knew that I wasn’t normal. My family and friends would often make comments about my size or my stature. They would tell me things like, I was too big to hold, or too strong to wrestle with. I learned that my physical presence carried power and that it would keep people away, from getting too close. So I used that to keep me safe. I hushed the beauty that was inside and allowed my physical presence to project strength and confidence. I stopped wearing those worn, heart patched pants and put on a cape instead. I become Superman. It was so easy to do. The world was happy with me playing this role, and it kept me safe.

And that it did.

This strategy worked well throughout my life, and continues to do so. But it has also come at a high cost. If you think about it, Superman was always alone. He was known by very few. And was he actually fully known by any? He was always having to hide himself away. He was either Clark Kent or Superman, but never both.

There’s desperation in loneliness. At some point in my life, I settled to be seen, even if I would never be fully known. It is easier to convince yourself that you are not alone when you are surrounded by people that at least see you, maybe even admire you a little. I spent nearly a decade of my life training and competing in Track and Field, throwing the discus and hammer. I put myself on display to be seen, to be affirmed. I would step into that cage, where nobody would be able to get close enough to see under the mask, and perform for the crowd. In a cage!

Did the world also need me to be Superman? Was that the excitement around my birth? That has been the experience of my story. My role within my own family was to be perfect. It was to be the good boy, to do the right thing, to lead those around me to a better way. And to not need anything from any of them, and to shut down my emotional needs to be what I was needed to be. This role left me in a state of, either being elevated, or being despised. It has made people feel insecure and less than. It has also made people feel safe and secure. Not everyone likes Superman. While my role provided comfort and safety for my mother, it caused my father to turn away from me. He would rarely look at me, my face or my body. He was threatened by my physical presence. It has kept him, to this day, from being able to see anything else within me.

I was expected to become Superman for everyone else. It has led to me being exploited and used. And I needed to become Superman for me, for my own protection. It has left me confused and ambivalent to who I actually am. It has required me to be less of who I was meant to be, shutting down more and more parts of God’s design within me.

It makes sense why I have so much ambivalence towards my own body. My physical presence has been attached to a lot of harm and loneliness. But my physical presence is part of me as well, so I know that I can’t continue to reject it either. I want to be seen for who I am. Who am I? I am not just the care bear. And I am not just the superman. Can I be both? Wasn’t I meant to be both? Can I learn to exist in the flow of each together as one? I have had to live in the bind of having to be one or the other. Most of my story mirrors that of that care bear of a boy having to become more of that superman. And in order to do that, I have had to shut down those more sensitive and sweet parts of who I am. I have had to settle for not being known, but being seen. Even if it isn’t the fullness of who I am that they are seeing, it is still far less lonely to be seen than it is to not be.

So, that is where the ambivalence resides. The having to choose between one or the other. But do I have to actually choose? Can I be both? What do I need to do to be both? Maybe I don’t actually have to do anything to find a way. Maybe it is more about learning how to just be. It is exhausting trying to be one or the other.

I was meant to be both.

As you consider your own self, what characters represent who you were made to be, and who you have had to be?

How does that strike you?

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Drew Loftin, Grove Chaplain