Editor’s note: Reader, please be aware that this letter includes mentions of SA.

My name CK. I grew up in Montana, USA. As a gay teen in that environment, I went through some truly painful years. But I was always a romantic—yearning for connection. To give you a sense of who I was, I’ll see if I can attach a picture for kicks and giggles. My parents used to say I could make friends with anyone who looked at me. I loved people. When I looked back I felt less inhibited, and I would walk up to strangers—people on planes, to people at video rental stores when I was renting my treasured weekly VHS/dvd choice—and  I was told I would ask them tons of questions about themselves. Not sure if that was annoying (I hope not) but I remember just thirsty for knowing people and their stories.

I felt like I had a lot of friends in elementary school. I remember playing Pokémon cards with some, dreaming up magical kingdoms with others, and talking with classmates about who liked whom. I didn’t know how good I had it then. The magical colored mirror I look back in says the kids in my world were kind, imaginative and funny. Sure, we fought…but they were kid fights. We were best friends again the next day.

One of my first memories regarding school and my sexuality and identity was in sixth grade. I was so excited to be in a new school. You know that transitional feeling as a kid like, “I’m growing up now, I’m pretty much an adult!” My parents always thought I made friends easily, but I never understood why. Looking back I just wanted people to feel seen and included. I liked making people laugh. I never wanted the new kid to feel like they didn’t belong.

But that brightness inside me started to dim that year- within the first week of my middle school life.

I know your time is valuable, and I truly appreciate you reading this. I’m sharing all of this because The Wheel of Time meant so much to me. To be clear, I know Rosamund fought tooth and nail for this show—especially with how much love she clearly had for the books and the light she brought to Moiraine Sedai. So again, feel free to skip to the end for my direct message, I just think the story helps explain why this show, and its cancellation, affected me so deeply.

Back to that sixth-grade moment. I walked into the boys’ bathroom my first week of school. A kid shouted, “Hey, this freak is looking at my d*ck!” The other boys laughed. They shoved me into a urinal and grabbed parts of me I didn’t understand at the time. My voice, my softness—it marked me. Before I even understood what being gay meant, they decided for me. From that moment on, I knew I wasn’t safe. A part of my and I think maybe one of my most beautiful parts was entombed. 

There are many stories I could share like this—not because I want to share the details, but because what Rosamund and this show gave me helped repair some of the wounds those stories left behind.

After that day, I avoided bathrooms at school. I was terrified. I remember not going to the bathroom unless I knew no one was in it. Sometimes waiting all school day. Later I would realize how much that suppression of physical urges really impacted me. Gym class was even worse. The same kids (also new ones) would taunt me every time I changed clothes, yelling that I was “staring” or “looking” at them, so I learned to stare only at the floor. Shame settled into my body like cement. 

Still, I tried to hold onto my light. I made friends with the few new students who arrived, even though many of my childhood friends had moved on to other schools. I ran for student council, thinking maybe I could still make friends, or make a difference. I poured myself into a speech I was so proud of. I remember practicing for weeks. I stood on stage and delivered it. At the end, someone yelled, “F*g.”

The room erupted in laughter, giggles, and whispers. I honestly don’t remember what happened after that… But I had a deep fear of being perceived after that.

Kids on the playground at lunch started quoting my speech to me all the time, and an overly dramatic feminine voice. I tried find sources of solace wherever I could. Often for me that was media. I felt I had to sacrifice so much of who I was at that time. One of those things I couldn’t sacrifice was my love for books and stories. Fantasy, sci-fi—anything that offered stories of wondrous places. And in those fantasies, those stories also gave me strength. They taught me how to hold on and how we are all just stories in the end. For some that may be scary but for me that is the most powerful part! To shape yourself, channel your values and learn from the imaginations of others. 

The Wheel of Time was one of those series. It was a big commitment, to be honest I only read the first two books (later came back to others). I read it alongside other favorites—Abhorsen (plug for this if you have not heard of it I know Magott Robbie mentioned these books and I could totally see you as Sabriel and her as Lirael!? Food for thought XD), The Circle of Magic, Charlie Bone, Dune, Eragon (the author was from my hometown!), and manga.

These stories helped me survive the halls of school and through my journey in a cold teenage landscape as a gay teen. They forged courage in me. They reminded me that the wheel turns, and that my world, no matter how painful, should keep moving.

In high school, I finally found a small group of friends. But the threats continued. I received anonymous notes with hateful, violent words. But the worst part was the loneliness. I watched others experience romance freely, even if awkwardly. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t even look at someone without fear of reprisal. And at this time, the only places I had to turn to, to find any kind of connection were sites like “Manhunt.com”… like come on who came up with that…—which were full of faceless profiles, racism (“whites only”), misogyny (“no fems”) and people that made love seem like distant reality for me.

My search for love became a quest. One I think many in the queer community can understand sadly in rural places. Where what I found were masks, facades, twisted priorities. When you want to be seen and loved so badly, you start ignoring your own safety. The stories I told myself about others were so alluring, and I was starving for connection. I won’t get into the details of how that went here, mainly because I already talked your ear off, but also I’ve come to terms with those dark chapters of my life. 

When you yearn for love but are forced to the shadows to find it … I wonder what you will find? Maybe a love so strong it will burn away the shadows (I had always hoped). Or more likely for me those so twisted/warped they will dangle your fantasies to lure you in to trap you, knowing they can because they know that warmth by a fire is so tempting when your out into eh fridges cold that you end up burning yourself trying to get warm. 

Eventually, something broke. And I returned to what I knew: stories.

I was reading The Fires of Heaven. Grieving character losses (I’m sure you know). Feeling something resonate in Rand’s grief—his transformation through pain. I never identified with Rand in the stories really, but I understood that. I actually identified a lot with Moraine.  

Around that time, Dustin Lance Black came to my college and my mom I think sensed I need some light. I was a senior in high school. I remember him saying something like, “this is one of the civil rights movements of your time. You can be the voices of your generation. We need you to stand up if you’re able.”

I wasn’t sure I was able. But I went home and made a coming-out video and posted it that night thinking two people would see it. Over a couple days it reached much of my high school and beyond. You can still find it online on YouTube if you search my name. Ugh so awkward, background and all, complete with the punching bag I’d saved up to buy because I wanted to protect myself if anyone ever tried to hurt me again.

I didn’t share everything in the video, but I wanted to be a message of hope—not despair, for someone else out there. That video sparked my activism. I was actually interviewed in the local paper. I was terrified for my family’s safety. The article didn’t capture what I really wanted to say. But I hoped it would still reach someone. And then I was invited to give the first-ever TEDx talk in Montana to tell my story. Looking back where I am right now I would say things differently but I smile at my bravery. 

Eventually, I went to college and majored in psychology. I wanted to help others. But the shadows still followed me. Loneliness stayed. And eventually, I moved to Minnesota, hoping that a city would mean more chances for love, or at least for connection.

I finished my bachelor’s degree. Then COVID hit. I had just gone through a difficult breakup. I felt lost again. I had always wanted to help others, but I didn’t know how anymore.

————————-

I had been in years of therapy and inner work, I had also take AP psychology and loved it. I remember feeling that spark of my original light when I was learning about psychology. I decided to go back to school for a Master’s in Counseling Psychology. I loved it. I thrived. And even though people told me to just stop at the Master’s level, something in me kept had always wanted to deepen my training- I always recalled my first professor who was a psychologist and taught with that same thirst for people’s stories. I just was so still uncertain of my path, abilities and I think too if I was deserving.

People in my life had told me: “It’s too much time.” “Just graduate and get a job.” And for a moment, I was really split. 

But then—your show premiered.

I watched the first episode and cried. I had not cried in over a decade. A large part of me had been locked away I think, buried beneath the all the hate society has for the feminine… filtered and refracted through a prism onto me (and of course sadly others). That small kid who was so bullied and so afraid to let anything feminine show because of the hurt it caused me. The same kid who, for years, feared when someone called him “ma’am” on the phone. The kid who screamed in his dreams when clawed hands pushed him down into the bed. The curious inquisitive, perceptive wonderings for the stories of others to connect. The show unearthed something in me that had felt so frozen it was painful to thaw—something I hadn’t felt since the days I would read The Wheel of Time or other stories during lunch in the school library, gazing out across the Montana landscape and imagining a world of magic. I saw how femininity is powerful. Complex. Beautiful. Interconnecting. Terrifying. Unique. Not something the world told me which was you are meek, weak, submissive or to be hidden.

Your performance, Rosamund, and the story your director conjured, accessed something in me that had been held encased. Moiraine’s power, her elegance, her fearlessness. The sacrifice, the pain of knowing but not knowing. The loneliness and unity of others. 

The show was different from the books, yes. But it felt true. And each season continued to open me up further. This is directly related, but I think it is all interwoven. I used to be so afraid of my own voice because it had brought me such pain and hurt. But I’ll never forget when a client told me- she said “your voice feels so safe and calming to me.”

Now, I’m finishing my Psy.D. and about to begin my doctoral internship year—at Montana State University, no less (full circle). I’ll be a counselor for students. Hopefully a light for those who need it, just like others were for me. And like Moiraine was.

So, this is what I want to say to you, Rosamund:

Thank you. Thank you for your art, what you brought to this story, your strength (clear in the way you act but also your deep care for source material), your presence. Thank you to the director (whose vision was new, fresh but true), the writers, the cast, and the crew. This show mattered. And what you gave to it emboldened me. 

My heart broke when I heard about the cancellation. I hope, with all my heart, that another studio picks it up. This story is epic, timely, and needed. Especially in this dark time in my country and the world. 

But even if this is the end of this chapter, I needed you to know-so I sat down and typed furiously: you helped someone reconnect with parts of themself. And that will live on in the work I do, helping others heal.

We live in a world quick to judge, quick to destroy. Sometimes, that’s the hardest part of being a romantic, a creator, a story teller, or a human dreaming, in this day and age. But the Wheel keeps turning.

And I’m still here. Still weaving.

Thank you again—for everything.

The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.

With love and gratitude,

KC