There have been times in my life when I convinced myself that I was going to explode. The tensions inside my brain and body had reached a fever pitch. I was a helpless bystander, strapped to the front of a steam engine, heading for a direct collision with myself. The stresses of work, life, money, and family piled up throughout the corridors of my mind.
On one particular day, I was stressed to the point of breaking. My constant drip of negative thoughts turned into a cascade of doubt. My body was pelted by a storm of emotions, and none were good. With so much adrenaline pumping through my veins, I felt like I was self-combusting from the inside, and I had to just… move.
Moving my body was the only thing that mitigated the stress to the point I felt like I would survive. I paced the room back and forth, my mind still racing, my eyes still watering. But my pacing was getting stronger. This limited movement wasn't helping me anymore, and I wanted just to get outside.
I live on a horse farm in Texas and have access to open grass. I let myself go. I left the house barefoot and quickly stomped to the grass. I vividly remember pacing that field for fifteen minutes, back and forth, sometimes talking to myself, always thinking, never being able to stop moving. I wouldn't say I was breaking down, but I did feel like my spirit was broken. I was exhausted. But the adrenaline flowed.
It wasn't long until I noticed my breath had eased, and I wasn't walking with as much force as I started. Still, I kept walking.
As my heart rate decreased and my mind eased, I started to feel the grass on my feet. My feet in the grass and the tactile feeling of something other than the fire building inside me gave me a sense of relief. It wasn't perfect, and I was still spinning, but I could breathe.
One thing about anxiety is that it's made me very in tune with my body's feelings. Pacing through that field that day, I felt composure wrap me from the bottom up, like the bottom half of my body began to anchor itself to the earth. In every sense of the word, I felt grounded.
Still, I kept walking. Did it feel nice?
I walked a lot on that grass during that time. That field became my safe space. And every time, without fail, I left that field breathing easier than when I entered it.
To distract myself, I started a garden. It was larger than it should have been, and I took on more than I should have. My modus operandi was to distract myself when anxiety clouded my mind. If I could occupy every waking moment with a task, my mind wouldn't have gotten to take control.
Being called to the land is a centuries-old story, but this was all new to me. I instinctively knew I felt better in that garden. Still, I had no idea why it was calling me so strongly. What I learned was that the beauty of what I was producing, the still quiet of the garden surrounding me, and the constant need for work weren't just filling me.
They were filling holes within me. They were healing me.
I have grown tired of life sometimes. It's a sad realization when you find you're just phoning it in, and you might even like it that way. I've spent so much time rehashing the past, concerned over a future that doesn't exist, and mostly trying to understand why people act the way they do. It's exhausting, disappointing, and can be debilitating.
So, I made my mental plan to check out. Grace became a resignation—a quiet, passive acknowledgment that if I didn't let something go, it would eat me alive, stealing the present moment from under me. Resistance seemed baked into everything I did, and it colored my view of the world with darkness instead of light.
For many of us in the queer community, trauma feels like a thread woven into the fabric of our lives. And while there's often pressure to be grateful for the pain—because it shaped who we are—I've come to believe that's a form of cultural gaslighting. I don't have to be grateful for what hurt me. Gratitude doesn't need to stretch that far.
Joy isn't about appreciating the trauma but reclaiming the power that trauma tried to take away.
Joy is a quiet but powerful reclamation. For those of us who've faced trauma, it's not about erasing the pain or pretending it didn't happen. It's about building something beautiful in its shadow. It's about choosing to create light even when left in darkness. Everything changed when I stopped resisting the world and started building resilience within myself. Resilience isn't about fighting—it's about showing up, tending to what matters, and finding light in the dark.
Joy as Resistance
As a queer person living in Texas, I know how anger and resentment can burn incredibly bright within ourselves and our communities. Joy is different. Joy is a quiet, sustainable resistance. It's what anchors us to today but keeps us moving forward. The future can be dark if you let it, but if you find joy right now, there can be nothing but light on your path. The truth is, it takes more energy to fight, more muscles to frown, more energy to fight invisible battles, and more energy to worry. But joy can be light. It isn't effortless, but it's always the easiest choice.
The truest act of resistance in the modern day is resisting the urge to resist at all. Because that is the resistance that will build you up instead of bringing you down.
Growing food and flowers has filled me with many perspectives about the power we give ourselves by living in the present. Ever since I've lived on land with my horses and animals, it has seemed like the world is on fire. Tempers flare, bridges burn, and you cannot escape an every-person-for-themselves mentality.
But the garden has taught me that the quietest acts of resistance—tending to a plant, finding joy, staying present—are the most powerful. These are the things that keep us whole.
Joy is not about ignoring darkness but choosing light despite it. The act of planting seeds in the dirt, spreading love amidst the world's chaos, even when the future seems uncertain—this is resistance. When you're in the garden, there is only right now. All you can do is plant, tend, and trust. Somehow, that turns out to be enough.
My mental health journey in the garden turned into an entire business and community in my corner of the world. And along the way, I've returned barefoot to the same field many times. We plant our best crops in it, which has rewarded us profoundly throughout the seasons.
I remember paying it back to the earth and giving some reserves to my future self often. When I'm feeling good, I walk the property barefoot, sending my joy back to the source and bottling up a little for when I may need it soon. Even if a present moment is filled with struggle, you are always right where you need to be, right where you want to be, when you commit to the journey.
Brett Chisholm is a writer, farmer, and founder of Three Dudes Farm, home to Houston's largest flower subscription program. His work explores the intersection of mental health, nature, and community, using the land as both a healer and a storyteller. He shares the quiet power of choosing joy and presence in an often chaotic world through his essays and reflections.
Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit out.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. We welcome your thoughts and feedback on any of our stories. Email us at voices@equalpride.com. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists and editors, and do not directly represent the views of Out or our parent company, equalpride.
