It's a gray Wednesday. Sho sits on his deck, his head wrapped in a hoodie whose black exterior hides an ornate inner lining. We've been talking for three hours, as old friends do. We've travelled down the rabbit hole and into a discussion about what it means live as Black and queer in the twenty-first century. For Sho, there are three stages of life.

"Surviving, living, and thriving," he calls them. "They just came to me one day last year."

Shovaughn Jacrey Chism-Hill, a native of Camden, NJ, describes the period from 2000 to 2014 as his "deepest survival stage."

"I was making decisions based on my most basic needs."

Sho's mom died of cancer when he was sixteen. The loss was devastating.

"I tried to delete myself multiple times."

I ask if the word "delete" is a euphemism for—

"Suicide... yeah," he confirms. "Everything went haywire when my mom died. The only thing I had control over was whether I breathed." Sho likens himself to a crab in those days, one in search of a new shell. "Everything was a risk to me. Everything was a threat."

Survival was made harder by the poisonous clouds of generational trauma.

"My great uncle was killed because people thought he was attracted to a white woman." It was a tragedy that rippled across generations. "My father said things like 'just make sure you careful 'round your white friends.'"

I ask him how that inherent distrust affected his friendships growing up. "It was very damaging," he says. "I was scared to have white friends." But Sho recognizes the paradox of parenthood. "The sad part: it was a reality. My dad wanted to protect me, to make sure I was always aware of my surroundings."

Their relationship grew more complex when Sho came out as gay at nineteen. "My dad started crying and told me 'You need to live your life right. Get right with God.'" Once again, Sho reflects with grace. "When my dad was growing up, if he and his brother cried, my grandfather would punch them and say, 'Boys don't cry. Stop acting like a faggot.'"

Despite all the barriers, Sho began to turn the page from surviving to living when he attended Eastern University, a Christian college in Pennsylvania.

"I was surrounded by people who loved me and all my mess." Sho compares his younger self to a cup with holes. "They were pouring this love into me, and it just leaked out the bottom. I wasn't receiving a lot of that love. But then I had people come into my life who started to plug those holes."

He praises his then girlfriend for helping him through freshman year. "She would have research papers, like 15-20 pages, but she'd sit down next to me, do her homework, and simultaneously help me with mine."

She wasn't the only one who believed in him.

Sho reflects on a professor whose faith in him came at great risk, both personal and professional. For the sake of privacy, their identity and the exact details of their actions will not be shared, but suffice it to say, Sho would not have graduated without their act of grace. He looks into the air as he recounts the tale. There's a glint in his eyes, but he blinks it away.

"I didn't think I was worth it," the words get caught in his throat. "She hugged me, and said, 'Now go graduate.'" A sob escapes his mouth. "I will carry this gratefulness with me to my grave."

Sho continued his trek through the living phase when he accepted a job with the Baltimore City Health Department. It was his first time living on his own. He was terrified. But he made the choice to lean into his truth.

"The people I worked with demanded my authentic self. They wanted me to show up. And they knew when I wasn't." I ask him how they knew. "I think I made it easy for them because I was so bold. I took up space. And when I didn't, they knew something was wrong."

Sho carries that same boldness into his current relationships. "I make jingles out of crazy shit. My friends sing them every time we get together. They like the authenticity, and a lot of them have told me 'I like being your friend because I feel like you care.'"

Yet, he still has his moments.

"If I'm going through something, I want to keep it to myself. And there are situations when speaking up backfires, and I revert to survival mode. It's like basic math, 1+1=2, so I'm not gonna do 2 anymore."

I ask him, "What if people aren't numbers? What if they're equations, with an infinite number of solutions?"

He nods. "Yeah, human beings are just a walking ball of—"

"Hot garbage," I interrupt.

His laugh is big, visceral, the kind you want to pull into your chest to feel for yourself.

Despite all his accomplishments, the road to thriving is still a challenging one. Currently a regulatory information specialist with the FDA, a promotional opportunity has arisen, and though everyone has told him to go for it, his survival mind still gives him pause.

"They're celebrating me, and it's weird. It's fucking weird!"

I smile. "I'd argue the universe has been trying to celebrate you all along."

He ponders the compliment.

"Do you still carry that feeling of being small?" I ask.

"Not as much," he says. "It's getting better, but those thoughts and feelings are still there. When someone says something that hits an insecurity, I shrink."

"How do you push through?"

"It helps to have people who see me at my worst and still want the best for me. People who remind me of who I am. It pushes me to change course. Having somebody who demands your vulnerability, who fights for you to open up— that's a gem."

"It's okay to be celebrated," I say. "You're allowed to take up space. You're divinely mandated to take up space."

"Oooooh, I like that," he laughs.

"What's one thing you’d say to someone struggling to turn that page from surviving to thriving?" I ask.

He groans over having to pick one, but ultimately rises to the challenge.

"I'd say, if you don't have people around that see and love you, figure out how to get them. If you don't know what living or thriving looks like, know that you need people."

He messages me a few days later:

Sooo happy we are friends.

So am I. So am I.