Atheism is True, Proof is False, and Assertions are Null

Having grown up as a fundamentalist Christian, I still really love symbolism. I think it's why I enjoy coding, encryption, and illustrative, allegorical writing so much. So if the title to this essay seems a bit presumptive, here's what "Atheism is True" means from an initial, strictly logical, mathematical perspective:

Atheism exists.

We’re often told life is about choosing a side. You either believe or you don’t. You either say yes or no, true or false, right or wrong. But what if that’s not the whole picture? Some people aren’t choosing a set of beliefs—because those answers, for them, just aren't there to choose from.

In the disciplines of Data Science and Discrete Mathematics, there’s a concept that explains this, if you aren't seeing the bigger picture.

When examining a data structure that contains a boolean—which is a simple True or False choice—there aren’t just two options. The structure can contain either that True or False value, or it can simply be empty. When that happens, we describe the emptiness as "Null." That doesn’t mean zero. It doesn’t mean false. It means undefined. It means no value has been provided. The field is blank.

And if a computer program looks for a True or False answer without recognizing that the structure might be Null—it might be empty—the program can literally fail. It won’t know what to do without the missing information—unless it’s been encoded to expect that possibility.

This is essentially what many atheists are trying to express in real life.

Atheism describes the consideration of God as a structure—as an entity or institution—and it isn’t necessarily claiming “False.” Instead—as you've probably heard but maybe had a hard time wrapping your head around—atheism is the absence of belief.

A-belief. A-theism.

Atheism, as a concept, isn’t saying “False.” It’s saying “Null.” It’s saying there is no real True or False information available. The structure is simply empty of data that can be evaluated. It’s not a denial. It’s not a rebellion. It’s a recognition: the field has not been filled.

The data structure for God, from this view, just doesn’t contain evidence that can be classified one way or the other.

And this isn’t just a technical point. It matters in real life—in families, in classrooms, in communities. When people are pressured to take a position they don’t actually hold—or to claim belief where none exists—it can create distance, even harm. Some of the deepest tensions in our culture come from that push to choose, when all someone really wants is to be honest: I don’t know. I don’t believe. I haven’t seen the data.

This doesn’t mean all atheists think alike. Some do actively claim that the God proposition is False. That’s often referred to as strong atheism. But what I'm describing here is the actual definition of atheism—the absence of belief. Sometimes called implicit or common atheism. Atheism in its clearest conceptual form.

And when you understand that, you see why the pressure to declare True or False can feel so off. For atheists like myself, the identity doesn't stem from refusing to believe, and it shouldn’t be framed as something negative. It’s a way of holding space for the unknown. Some people are just living with Null.

And there is meaning in recognizing Null. It's honest. It’s real. It's utility within the structure of our cultures—available to hold any True or False information the future. And it's just as valid if it never does, even if some refuse to see it that way.

Trans Inclusion and Sports: What Is 'Fair'?

Something we all know, but for some reason, it's controversial on this topic: If your support stops at words, it isn’t support. 

Quickly, let's look at the ideals of an “ally”. In theory, it means to show up in real, personal ways. But when it comes to trans people, its usually more perfunctory. It's a post online or a sign at a rally, isn't it? But when the chips are down, the number of people who show up for the trans people in their lives is often disturbingly small.

Today, I watched a video of a trans girl's mother defending her daughter to other moms at a championship sports event. Her daughter, AB Hernandez, won two golds. Other girls who competed have also praised her win.

That's family. That's community. That's real support and care.

It is against that kind of love that the contrast is sharpest. Without real inclusion, flags and pins and noddings of formal approval can feel just as hollow as the cold embrace so many other queer kids still chase from their own families.

Picking and choosing areas of 'fair' and 'appropriate' inclusion and exclusion for trans people misses the point and the needs. And if you don’t make space for trans people in your communities—your workplaces, your friend groups, your families, your politics, and yes, even your sports teams—then nothing else you say really matters.

No, it doesn’t help to create new categories. No, it doesn’t help to draw new lines in the sand. Because these roles—sister, mother, girlfriend, teammate—aren’t just about function or ideology or athleticism. They’re social spaces, emotional spaces, places where people feel like they belong.

 

To be welcomed in those roles is to feel like your sense of self actually means something to the people around you.

When that’s denied? Many of us don’t want to live. That’s not hypothetical. That’s not poetic. That’s reality. And the blood from that reality—that genocide—will be on the hands of every cis person who refuses to include. All while you keep arguing over who gets to win a game.

But the trans kid? They just want to play. They want to be seen. And what we’ve collectively forgotten is: that’s what sports were supposed to be about in the first place.

My grandfather was a football coach—an amazing one. He was once offered a job coaching college ball, but he turned it down to stay close to his family. He loved sports, but even more than that, he believed in what they were meant to teach: teamwork, accountability, showing up for each other. He never taught me that it was about domination. Sure, he’d say, “Winning matters.” But he’d always follow it up with: “It’s about the people who help you get there. Your team. Your coach. Not just you, but your family.”

Then he'd add, “That's your grandmother and I, you know. We'll be your greatest allies in life, and you cannot ever afford to forget that.”

I wish I’d been able to tell him what happened. I stopped speaking to him after I transitioned—not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid of how he’d see me (or not). Those words he said felt like he must have meant them for someone else, so I never came out to them. My mother had already rejected me by then, and she never told him the truth. He and my grandmother died without ever really knowing why I was gone. They only knew that my mom was unhappy with me, and that I’d left the fundamentalist cult she raised me in.

I guess I forgot the things he taught me—about showing up for people, about the strength of a team.

And somehow, I convinced myself he wouldn’t be on mine. So I separated myself. I preemptively separated myself for them. I carved out a separate space for myself—just like people are trying to do to trans kids now. But in the end, it wasn’t really fair to me. And it sure as hell wasn’t more fair for them.

Competition should teach us how to be part of something. How to lift each other up. How to belong to a community that values more than just the winner.

Yes, someone wins. But no one gets there alone. Not cis athletes. Not trans ones. Every win is the product of practice, of coaches, of teammates, of support. The belief that some people just deserve to be idolized—that they “earned” a spot above the rest of us—and that trans athletes are somehow threatening that? That idea doesn’t come from truth. It comes from a country with broken values. A country that worships winners and punishes difference.

And trans people were never the threat.

“They Say ‘Men’, But If I Believed In a Higher Power...”

My daughter turns 18 in just four more years.

I hate that I’m counting the days.

Not because I want her to grow up faster—but because of the way our government is collapsing, the way threats keep building. Because at 18, I’ll no longer be so directly and legally tied. I always want to guide and protect her and her older brother, but at 18, the magnitude lessens a bit.

My words and actions won't directly affect their lives or security. I'll pretty much be free to speak as loudly as I want, without fear that my words will be used to hurt my children, who rely on me and this home I've made for them to grow.

And I will speak, no matter the consequence.

What I don’t understand is why so many people—people who don’t have children, who don’t have vulnerable lives hanging in the balance—are so quiet while democracy unravels.
This is it. These are the moments that define you. The ones that history remembers.

We look back and celebrate bold men: Teddy Roosevelt, John Lewis, Frederick Douglass. But there were always women standing just as firm—Eleanor, Rosa, Sojourner Truth—often even more persistent, though less remembered.

Lately, I find myself asking: Where are the strong, good men now?
The ones who stand up publicly to hatred and tyranny? I keep searching.

Sometimes, I get this absurd flash of a thought: Was I supposed to be one of them?
Is that why people ignore what I say—because I’m not that? Or because I was supposed to be? Or is it just because I am a woman?
Or is that the joke? That the good men in the history books were just trans women nobody knew about?

Then I laugh, cry a little, and go lie down.
Because while I don't believe in destiny, I’m pushing 40, and anxiety does wild things to the brain, no matter your beliefs.

Still, I have hope.
My son is becoming a good man—kind, capable, thoughtful.
My daughter? She's full of love, full of curiosity. But she’ll need to be sharp, strong, ready. This world? It’s shifting fast.
I have to prepare her. Teach her how to spot threats from a mile away. How to care, and how to protect herself, too.

And maybe—if I believed in a higher power—I’d think this was the reason. That this path, this life, this perspective… it was given to me for a purpose. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe there’s a grand plan. But sometimes, it’s hard not to wonder.
Because there’s no way my daughter would be ready for the world she’s growing into if I hadn’t gone through everything I did to become her mom.

Transitioning has been both joy and burden. A need I couldn’t escape.
A door I had to walk through just to breathe.

I love being a woman—but I hate that it had to be like this.
That I had to trade parts of myself just to be seen. That I’ve known more violence in this body than ever before.
That my value is seen, not from brand new ideas, but only with the sorts of safe ideas that are capable of meeting others' expectations of me as a woman.

But I’ve also known life. Real life. Not survival, not reaction—living.

The past 5–8 years, I’ve gotten to choose more, and choose willingly and authentically. Even where the choices didn't turn out they way I wanted, it was me considering and it was me learning and it was me living. I’ve dated, loved, lost, built friendships.
I’ve been a mom, a boss, a sister, a fiancée.
Wife hasn’t happened yet, but I’m not counting it out.

And through it all, I’ve moved through the world as a woman—even in the ways I’ve been attacked.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

The bigots call us “men” with their mouths, but the way they treat us? The way they react to us, obsess over us, and try to shame us?
That’s not how men are treated, typically.

Bigoted men don’t challenge trans women the way they challenge other men. They don’t engage in debate or test strength.
They rage the way men rage at women.
They’re angry that we have a voice. That we take up space.
Sometimes they’re jealous of the attention we get. Sometimes they’re ashamed of their attraction.
But when they lash out, the insults they throw aren’t masculine ones.
They don’t say, “You’re weak” or “You’re wrong.”
They say, “You’re ugly.” “You’re disgusting.” “You’re mentally ill.”
They mock our appearance. They sexualize us. They call us unstable.
That’s not how men fight men. That’s how they try to cut down women.

Bigoted women don’t treat trans women like men either.
They treat us like bad girls.
Like outsiders who skipped the rituals, broke the codes, didn’t pay the price for entry.
They resent our confidence. Our softness. Our refusal to be quiet.
Sometimes they’re jealous of our youth, or our joy, or the love we receive.
Sometimes it’s our visibility.
But whatever the reason, they treat us with the judgment and coldness that cis women are trained to aim at other women who don’t observe the nuances and rituals of female culture. They don't tend to treat us as perverts or confused men that need redirection, despite that being the claim.

So even while those JK Rowlings of the world shout “You’re not a woman”—everything about how they respond to us proves that we actually are, but they just can't handle it.

They typically gender us correctly in action, even when they swear they don't or won’t.

So whatever happens under these crazy times, under this awful administration—whatever comes for people like me—I know one thing:

I'm still me. It won’t be the first time I’ve faced it. And I’ve survived before.

I’ve lived as myself. I’ve raised children who are becoming strong and kind.
And even if the world ends, I’ll have done that. I’ll have loved them, protected them, and showed them what it means to woman up. And when they are adults, none of that will change either. There will just be more of it.

The Warmth of Spring Desire and the Sheer Electricity of Libido

There’s something I’ve come to notice about my body—about my being—as the seasons change. From the early days of spring through the thick of summer and into early fall, something stirs inside me. Desire hums. Touch lands differently. Even the wind feels like a flirtation. But come late October, the switch flips. Libido dims. The hum becomes a whisper. By December, I can go days—weeks—without any pull at all.

At first, I thought it was just me. Then I realized it wasn’t. It’s seasonal. It’s hormonal. And it’s part of my womanhood, too.

Winter: When Cortisol Rises, Androgens Fall

Biologically, this pattern makes sense. During winter months, cortisol levels tend to rise—an evolutionary response to reduced light and disrupted circadian rhythms. At the same time, androgens like testosterone and DHEA often decrease. These two forces—cortisol and androgens—are in direct tension with one another. Cortisol is catabolic, a stress signal that breaks down tissue and tells the body to conserve. Androgens are anabolic: builders, motivators, drivers of sexual desire. In women, where androgen levels are already lower compared to men, that winter dip can feel like silence.

And here’s where it gets nuanced: cortisol’s effects are amplified by estrogen. Meanwhile, progesterone can dampen cortisol’s grip—calming the nervous system, promoting GABA, and restoring a kind of internal softness. When progesterone is low and cortisol is high, it doesn’t just mute libido—it can tighten your body into a cold coil of vigilance.

Androgens Ignite. Estrogen Transforms.

From my own experience as a trans woman, I’ve come to understand libido differently than I ever did before. I used to think of desire as pressure—a balloon inflating behind the eyes or between the legs until it had to be let out. It was mechanical. Functional. Maybe feeling a bit frantic.

But estrogen changed everything. Now, libido feels like heat. Not a fire that burns fast, but a slow swelling warmth—like light through a curtain, like breath on glass. It’s not less intense, but it’s more internal. More relational. More about presence than pursuit.

As a big engineering, systems thinking, and metaphors type of person, here’s how I’ve come to think of it... 

Libido is like electricity, with how our hormonal components propel and effect it into our being:

• Testosterone is voltage—the raw current, the drive.
• Estrogen is resistance—not in the sense of inhibition, but in the sense of transformation. It reshapes the current. Adds texture. Turns electricity into warmth.
• Progesterone is insulation—protective, soft, quieting the static of cortisol’s alarm bell.

A lot of people think estrogen and androgens directly oppose each other—that they’re on some kind of hormonal tug-of-war. But that’s not quite right. Androgens primarily counteract cortisol and insulin, not estrogen. Estrogen, in fact, tends to encourage both. And that’s exactly why women—cis or trans—need androgens, too.

Not just for libido, but for energy, motivation, metabolic health, even a sense of grounded selfhood. The interplay is layered. These hormones aren’t binary enemies—they’re voices in a chorus, overlapping, harmonizing, counterpointing each other.

Which is why gender—and sex itself—is a spectrum. Not just socially. Biologically. No one is running purely on estrogen or testosterone. We’re all a blend. A pattern. A voltage map lit differently in every body.

The Poetics of Female Desire

There’s something quietly radical about naming these sensations for what they are. About saying, Yes, my desire changes with the seasons. That my body is not broken, just responsive. That libido, for women, isn’t a function to be maintained—it’s an atmosphere. It builds with safety. It deepens with warmth. It hibernates, and then it wakes.

And maybe that’s the real lesson here—not just a chart of hormones or a clinical footnote. But a realization that female libido is so much more nuanced than the way it's brought out in scientific journals that are largely cisnormative, and often still patriarchal. By trans experience, there's a stark contrast. Womanhood isn’t defined by constant arousal or linear drives. It’s defined by resonance—how heat rises, how tenderness blooms, how even quiet can be hold a sort of sensuality

So when winter comes and the voltage dims, I no longer panic. I listen. I rest. I wait for spring—not just outside, but within.

---

References

• Cortisol's Impact on Insulin Sensitivity – Frontiers in Endocrinology
• Estrogen and Insulin Sensitivity – The American Journal of Pathology
• Testosterone’s Regulation of Cortisol – Nature
• Estrogen and Insulin Action – PubMed Central
• Cortisol – Wikipedia Overview
• Estrogen's Role in Metabolism – Endocrine Reviews

Artificial or Human-Abstracted: Why AI Can’t See the Road It’s Spinning On

I’ve used AI to write code. I’ve used it to tighten complex threads in my writing. I’ve even used it to find language for things I once thought were unspeakable.

And since AI is such a massive—but often misunderstood—topic these days, I want to share what I’ve learned through those experiences (and a bit of computer science education). Not to stir more panic or hype, but to offer my clear-eyed perspective in a world already full of noise.

Here’s what I know:

AI isn’t sentient.
It’s not mystical.
It’s not wise.

And ChatGPT? It’s still Narrow AI. Even now.

It’s a loop machine. A very fast, often useful one. But it doesn’t see the road it’s iterating on.

That might sound abstract or confusing, so let me break it down.

Spinning Doesn’t Mean Moving

Picture a car with bald tires. The engine roars, the wheels spin furiously, but the car doesn’t move forward—it just burns rubber and heat. That’s how AI operates. And it becomes most visible when it encounters a challenge that isn’t neatly pre-structured. It throws itself at the problem, testing permutation after permutation, generating output after output. It looks like effort. But it’s friction without direction.

What’s missing is traction.

Humans, by contrast, don’t move as fast. We can’t try a thousand ideas in a second. But when we encounter complexity, we don’t just spin. We sense. We slow down. We adjust for terrain. We grip the curve, even when the road shifts under us.

That grip isn’t just what helps us solve problems—it’s what lets us notice when a problem is the wrong one entirely.

Seeing in Color

That difference—between looping and understanding—comes down to how we perceive reality itself.

When I was first discovering the internet, I remember using Lynx, a text-only browser. It showed websites as raw text: lists of links, content stripped of imagery, layout, or visual context. Lynx was fast. Efficient. But sterile. It didn’t show you the full web that other users were seeing, just a skeleton of it.

Then browsers like Netscape Navigator and Internet Explorer came into my life. Suddenly, the web had depth. It had color and shape. You didn’t just read—you experienced. Design became part of meaning. Context shaped comprehension. Emotion was carried not just in words, but in visuals, spacing, even silence.

It is apt to say that AI is, and will always be stuck in Lynx.

Even when it creates images, poems, or essays, AI is not seeing what it produces. It’s parsing data structure. It understands syntax, not significance. It can tell you what typically follows what, but it has no intuitive grasp of why something matters or how it feels. It doesn’t live in the world of gradients and gut reactions. 

It lives in markup. We live in Squarespace. 

We perceive in layers. When something looks wrong, we feel it. When a word cuts too deep or lands too flat, we don’t just calculate it—we flinch. When the road ends, we leap. Our perception is immersive, relational, and always at risk of being changed by contact.

Breaking the Loop

This distinction isn’t just theoretical. It’s personal.

In another example from my memoir, I describe a moment where I found myself performing the beliefs I no longer held—repeating scripture to win a spiritual argument I didn’t believe in, just to survive it. It wasn’t just a betrayal of truth; it was a confrontation with the code I’d internalized since childhood.  But I realized that coding was an abstraction of true reality. It was a simplistic paradigm. It's fair to say I had been reading the world in Lynx: linear, rigid, doctrine-first.

But the rupture—the emotional crisis, the dissonance, the need to choose something different—was Netscape. It was translating the world into something with more color and imagery. Messy, immersive, textured with contradictions. The shift didn’t happen because I was flipping through scripture until I had an answer that fit the status quo—not artificially iterating through parsed text to inch toward a better idea. It happened because that old doctrinal paradigm failed to render something essential. 

So I leapt the gap.

AI can’t do that. It can’t experience failure that rewrites its structure. It can’t reframe the map itself. It doesn’t feel the loss of an identity or the revelation of a lie. It only knows how to follow what’s statistically likely to come next.

We, on the other hand, leap when the loop breaks. That’s what insight is.

Why AI Will Always Need Us

And that’s why AI isn’t replacing us—it’s multiplying us. It’s an assistant, a fast and tireless one, when the road is already paved. But it doesn’t know when the road ends. It doesn’t know how to stop and ask, “Wait—should we even be going this direction?”

And eventually, even its speed will stall a bit. As exhausts the availability and novelty of training data and loops through more of the same, AI will plateau—generating endless permutations of yesterday's ideas without the grounding to create tomorrow’s. It can remix, but not reinvent.

That’s what we’re here for.

AI can spin all day. But someone has to steer. Someone has to notice the curve. Someone has to remember what the journey was for.

We bring the traction.
We bring the context.
We bring the moment when everything stops making sense and must be rebuilt.

Because we don’t just navigate the road—we build new ones.

And we don’t just process the world—we see it.

Moral Agency and the Making of Womanhood in Trans Life

A political cartoon I saw recently brought up a familiar ache. At the basic level, the cartoon depicts a trans woman resisting an unfair system alongside a cis woman, only to be cast aside by that same cis woman the moment transness disrupts her comfort. It's a scene that echoes real life for many of us: you think someone sees you, but what they really see is an outline they can discard the second it costs them.

And I want to be clear from the get-go that this situation doesn't play out with all cis women or cis people. But it has, nonetheless, become very common. 

Similarly, this isn’t just about betrayal. It’s about how we, as trans women, build lives of substance that can weather this kind of disillusionment. It’s about becoming moral and community agents, not just survivors. 

Let's start with what I will expect is a very difficult idea to accept for most trans people. And before I say what I'm going to say next, I want to reiterate that healthcare, including trans healthcare, is a human right. However...

Being a Woman Is Not a Right... It's a Practice

We often frame gender in legal or medical terms—"the right to be recognized," "access to transition care." And these are important fights. But being a woman is not, fundamentally, a right. It's a practice. It's something you become, not by demanding to be treated a certain way, but by being responsible for others, by contributing to your community, and by showing up again and again.

In this sense, womanhood isn't granted. It’s forged. And just like cis women have had to fight for respect, trans women have to carve out our own space, not by asking permission, but by being.

The Difference Between Expression and Identity

Many trans women, especially those without caregiving roles or community responsibilities, are trapped in cycles of validation through visibility. They are affirmed for their appearance, for how well they "pass," or for how loudly they advocate. But expression is not identity. Validation is not belonging.

Belonging comes when someone depends on you. When someone knows you. When you are irreplaceable in someone’s life. That can come through motherhood, mentorship, activism, partnership, caregiving, or work. But it must come.

When I became a single mother, it wasn't because I was trying to prove myself. It was because there was no one else. That responsibility shaped my identity in a way no amount of affirmation ever could.

From Defensiveness to Moral Agency

Being trans in a hostile world often means learning to defend yourself. But defensiveness isn’t a philosophy. It’s a reflex. And over time, it can become a prison.

True moral agency means speaking not just for yourself, but for others. It means protecting people you love. It means saying when someone is wrong—not just when they hurt you, but when they hurt someone else. That’s what cis women are often socialized into. And that’s what many trans women are never allowed to develop.

But we can develop it. We must. Because that’s how real relationships are formed. That’s how respect is earned, not demanded.

Broader Perspective: Feminist Parallels and Historical Echoes

Throughout history, marginalized women have forged their identities through struggle. Black women, Indigenous women, disabled women—all have faced questions of "authenticity" and exclusion. But over and over again, their womanhood was affirmed not through appeal, but through contribution.

Trans women stand in that same lineage. And we must build our identities not just in opposition to those who exclude us, but in solidarity with those who suffer with us.

“We do not live single-issue lives.” — Audre Lorde

Neither do we form single-issue identities.

From Fear to Freedom

Fear is understandable. So is the desire to be seen. But survival is not enough. Trans womanhood cannot be built on performance. It must be built on participation.

When you are chained next to someone else, what matters is not your category. It is your presence. Your willingness to fight. Your ability to care.

And that is something no one can erase.

Womanhood, like adulthood, is not a title. It's a burden we carry, a role we step into, and a set of moral choices we make. The world might not always welcome us. But if we show up in the raw ways that matter—as caregivers, as moral agents, as people who love fiercely and speak truth without apology—then we will not only be seen.

We will be known.

I began this post with a political cartoon, not just for effect, but because it viscerally captured an enormity of frustrations and contradictions. Marginalized women are too often diverted into lateral conflicts, battling for recognition from peers rather than solidarity against shared systems of oppression. The cartoon shows this clearly: two women pulling the same cart, both burdened, but turning on each other instead of questioning why they’re pulling it at all—or who benefits from their labor. 

That image lingered with me because it mirrors what I see all too often in real life: people with aligned interests getting caught up in identity gatekeeping while exploitative powers remain untouched. This little essay, then, is my attempt to break that cycle—to name it, and to challenge it, and to remind us that we’re not each other’s enemies. Perhaps trans women have fallen victim to chasing the wrong goal posts. Perhaps it is the cis women applauding the UK's recent legal redefinition of 'woman' who have been. Either way, we are all fellow travelers, yoked together by forces that want us distracted. It’s time we looked up, looked around, truly unified, and asked why we’re still pulling the damn cart.

No One Is Coming To Save Us

Adam Conover explains the horrible situation Americans find ourselves in, when to know and how you save yourself: