Hello Beautiful and Kind Humans!

Pride Month 2025 continues and it is time for more stories, more time in community, and more supporting each other unconditionally.

When I was a teenager growing up in Toledo, Ohio, I couldn’t imagine the life I’m living now.
Not because it’s some fantasy version of success—but because I genuinely had no reference point for what was possible.

Back then, the word “gay” only showed up as a slur in locker rooms or whispered shame at church. There were no out teachers, no gay uncles, no examples of love that looked like mine. There was just silence. Or worse, disgust.

And so, like a lot of queer kids of my generation, I did what I had to do to survive:
I got really good at performing.
I aimed for perfection.
I figured if I couldn’t be myself, at least I could be impressive.

Home didn’t offer much refuge. My mother, a complex and powerful woman who I loved deeply, spent much of my life battling alcoholism. Her addiction shaped everything—the mood in the house, the unpredictability, the way I learned to manage chaos while hiding my own pain. She finally got sober on my 39th birthday. That date is tattooed on my soul. It marked the beginning of her healing—but also, in many ways, mine.

By the time I came out, I was already in motion. I had built a career. Lived in big cities. Worked for big brands. Worn the mask well. But I hadn’t really started building me.
And I certainly wasn’t planning for a long, joyful queer life.
Because I still didn’t fully believe I was allowed to hope for that.

Somewhere in my early 40s, I tried. I poured my heart into relationships. I got married. I gave everything I had. But by 54, I was divorced, once again sitting in the ruins of something I thought would last.
Three failed relationships behind me. One broken heart in my chest.
And yet—still standing. Still open. Still believing in love.

That’s the thing about queer people: we are masters of reinvention.
Not by choice, but by necessity.
We’ve always had to write futures the world wouldn’t write for us.
We had to imagine families without models. Careers without sponsors. Joy without validation.
We had to believe in ourselves before anyone else did.

And yes, it’s made us tough. Creative. Empathetic.
But it’s also taken a toll.
Because hope is a muscle—and when you’re not encouraged to use it, it atrophies.

That’s what we don’t talk about enough:
What happens when a young person looks at the world and sees no reflection of themselves in joy, in love, in leadership?

What happens when “possible selves”—that beautiful psychological term for the life you envision—just don’t exist for you?

I believe this is the crisis beneath the crisis.
It’s not just about rights. It’s about imagination.
It’s about showing the next generation of queer kids—and adults, too—that their lives can be full, rich, meaningful. That they are worthy of not just survival, but of possibility.

And here's the wild part: at 60, I’m finally living one of those impossible futures.

This fall, I’m getting married—to a man who sees me, loves me, and brings peace to parts of my life I didn’t even know were loud. I found him not in the rushed fire of youth, but in the clarity of experience. Not when I was trying to prove anything—but when I had nothing left to hide.

He is not my second chance.
He is the reward for not giving up on love, even when it gave up on me.

So here I am:
In my 60th year.
In love.
Getting married.
More myself than I’ve ever been.

This is the life I couldn't imagine in Toledo.
And now it’s real.
Because I stayed.

I grew.

I healed.

I dreamed anyway.

Let’s dive into this Issue………..

Please join me in reading, listening, and drinking in the incredible graduation speech that Scott Pelley delivered at Wake Forest University in May. I have included the entire script, but the moments you spend are worth it. Thank you, Mr. Pelley, for your hard work, wisdom, and for speaking the truth.

Good morning, everybody. What a beautiful day. What a beautiful North Carolina day for a graduation. Incredible.

Thank you, President Wente, Provost Gillespie, members of the Board of Trustees and Katy Harriger, my faculty sponsor, for this precious Wake Forest honorary degree. I am honored and grateful to be with you today.

Good morning, graduates! A special shout out to our Reserve Officer Training Corps members who are going to be commissioned today in the service of their country today. Thank you so much.

Oh, this has been a challenging road. You have worked, you have worried and you have wondered if you could reach this day. I’m not talking about the graduates; I’m talking to the parents and the families.

Why are there so many people here? Because nobody got here alone.

First, a quick word of warning. I was reporting a story for 60 Minutes not too long ago, and I had a chat with a young astronomer. And I asked her, “So, what took you into astronomy?” She said, “Well, you spoke at my college graduation…”

And she went on and she said, “I was graduating with a perfectly sensible degree. But as I heard you speak, I realized my love was astronomy, so I re-enrolled. Now, I have a Ph.D. in astronomy and now I work on the Webb Space Telescope.”

So, if there is anyone here today who does not want to be an astronomer, this is the time to space out.

You know, if we were in London, we might be walking past Portman Square on a beautiful spring day. We would encounter the headquarters of the British Broadcasting Corporation, a nearly 100-year-old building from which Edward R. Murrow, the original CBS News correspondent, stood on the roof and broadcast back to America word of the falling bombs of fascism that fell on that free city month after month. If we walk a little bit further past the BBC, we will encounter another hero in the fight against fascism, George Orwell. He’d be standing there, frozen in bronze with his words carved in the side of a building: “If liberty means anything at all, it means something worth saying that some people don’t want to hear.”

I fear there are some people in the audience who don’t want to hear what I have to say today. But I appreciate your forbearance in this small act of liberty.

I’m a reporter so I won’t bury the lead. Your country needs you. The country that has given you so much is calling you, the Class of 2025. The country needs you, and it needs you today.

As a reporter, I have learned to respect opinions. Reasonable people can differ about the life of our country. America works well when we listen to those with whom we disagree and when we listen and when we have common ground and we compromise. And one thing we can all agree on – one thing at least – is that America is at her best when everyone is included.

To move forward, we debate, not demonize. We discuss, not destroy. But in this moment – this moment, this morning – our sacred rule of law is under attack. Journalism is under attack. Universities are under attack. Freedom of speech is under attack. An insidious fear is reaching through our schools, our businesses, our homes and into our private thoughts. The fear to speak. In America? If our government is – in Lincoln’s words – “of the people, by the people and for the people” – then why are we afraid to speak?

The Wake Forest Class of 1861 did not choose their time of calling. The Class of 1941 did not choose. The Class of 1968 did not choose. History chose them. And now history is calling you, the Class of 2025. You may not feel prepared, but you are. You are not descended of fearful people. You brought your values to school with you and now Wake Forest has trained you to seek the truth, to find the meaning of life.

Let me tell you briefly about three people I have recently met who discovered the meaning of their lives in moments of crisis not unlike what we have today.

Volodymyr Zelenskyy, president of Ukraine, spent his entire career as an entertainer on television. His first elected office was president of Ukraine. And three years ago, the Russian army came at him from three directions. He had a decision to make. And so he reached for the most lethal weapon in the Ukranian arsenal: his cell phone. 

He walked out of front of the presidential offices in Kyiv and made a video selfie. He told his people, “I’m still here and your army is still here, and we are going to fight.” He galvanized 44 million people instantly. Today, three years later, he is all that stands between a murderous dictator in Russia and the rest of free Europe. I asked him, “Where did that come from?” And he said, “Well, you look in the mirror and you ask, ‘Who are you’”?

Nadia Marad, a woman whom we at 60 Minutes found in a refugee camp in Iraq. Her family was murdered by ISIS and she had been sold for money into slavery. We convinced her to tell her story on 60 Minutes, which she did and she found her voice. Then she began to write, and then she began to speak about the crimes that women suffer in war. And a few years later, this young woman who we had found in a refugee camp won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Who are you?

Finally, Dr. Samer Attar, an orthopedic surgeon in Chicago and a professor of surgery at Northwestern who volunteers to do surgery in war zones. In Gaza. In Ukraine. To save lives of innocent people by using whatever meager supplies he has at hand. I asked him, “Where does this come from?” He told me, “It’s not much, but it beats burying your head in fear and ignorance.”

Who are you?

What is the meaning of life?

Today, great universities are threatened with ruin. So what did President Wente and Provost Gillespie do? They spoke out. They joined other institutions signing the call for constructive engagement, a declaration of the relationship between government and higher education. It reads in part, “Institutions of higher education share a commitment to serve as centers of open inquiry where, in their pursuit of truth, faculty, students, and staff are free to exchange ideas and opinions across a full range of viewpoints without fear of retribution, censorship, or deportation.”

Who are you? What does this make Wake Forest in this moment? Well, I think we know.

Did you hear that phrase in the Declaration? “Pursuit of truth?” Why attack universities? Why attack journalism? Because ignorance works for power.

First, make the truth seekers live in fear. Sue the journalists. For nothing. Then send masked agents to abduct a college student, a writer of her college paper who wrote an editorial supporting Palestinian rights, and send her to a prison in Louisiana and charge her with nothing. Then, move to destroy law firms that stand up for the rights of others.

With that done, power can rewrite history. With grotesque, false narratives, they can make heroes criminals and criminals heroes. And they can change the definition of the words we use to describe reality.

“Diversity” is now described as “illegal.” “Equity” is to be shunned. “Inclusion” is a dirty word. This is an old playbook, my friends. There is nothing new in this. George Orwell – who we met on the street in London – in 1949, he warned of what he called “new speak.” He understood that ignorance works for power.

But it is ignorance that you have repudiated every single day here at Wake Forest University. Who are you? I think we know.

Can just speaking the truth actually work? Well, consider this day. This day. May 19. May 19, 1963. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” was published for the first time. In that letter, Dr. King says, “The first thing that has to be done in the pursuit of justice is collecting the facts.”

Power was telling him in a jail cell, “Do not speak the truth because power will crush you.”

But consider that just months before that letter was published, Wake Forest University became the first major private institution of higher education in the South to integrate. In 1962.

The year after Dr. King’s letter –1964 – the Civil Rights Act is passed. And the year after that – 1965 – the Voting Rights Act is passed. Now today both of those are under attack. But can the truth win? My friends, nothing else does. It may be a long road, but the truth is coming.

Did you hear the other phrase in the declaration that was signed by President Wente and Provost Gillespie? “Without fear.”

That does not mean there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s an affirmation that you know who you are. That you know what you stand for. And that you know in the end – the long end – the Constitution will defend you even in the face of fearsome times.

In the words of one of your former Wake Forest professors:

“You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies.

You may tread me into the very dirt, but like dust, I’ll rise.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear, I rise.

Into a daybreak that’s wonderfully clear, I rise.

Bringing the gifts my ancestors gave me, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise.

I rise.

I rise.

The poet Maya Angelou taught at Wake Forest. She saw the fear that power sought to impose, yet in her famous phrase, she still knew why the caged bird sings.

This university, old and wise, has seen worse. It has overcome existential threats before to our country. You are not alone. A legion has gone before you. And now it is the Class of 2025 that is called in another extreme time.

Will you permit me another word of advice? I think this is how I created at least one astronomer.

Do not settle. You only get one pass at this. This world is going to tell you no a thousand times, but listen to the song in your heart. If they can’t hear it, that’s on them and not on you.

In the 1980s, I was rejected by CBS News over and over and over again over the years. They told me at one point, “Please stop applying.” They really did. And at the time, I thought “What’s wrong with these people?” They couldn’t hear the song in my heart. Maybe they were smarter. Every time I was rejected, I got better. Maybe that was the plan. But I finally made them hear the music in my heart.

You only lose if you quit. Do not settle.

What is the meaning of life? Who are you? You are the educated. You are the compassionate. You are the fierce defenders of democracy, the seekers of truth, the vanguards against ignorance. You are millions strong across our land.

You might be sorry that you were picked by history for this role. But maybe that was the plan. Hard times are going to make you better and stronger. In a few minutes, when that diploma hits your hand, it’s not a piece of paper you’re holding. We’re handing you a baton. Run with it.

Why am I here today? I’m 50 years farther down the trail than you are, and I have doubled back this morning to tell you the one thing I have learned from Volodymyr Zelenskyy and Nadia Marad and Samer Attar and a thousand others: In a moment like this, when our country is in peril, don’t ask the meaning of life. Life is asking, “What’s the meaning of you?”

With great admiration for your achievements and with confidence that you will rise to this occasion, I thank you very humbly for the honor of being with you.

Thank you very much,

I met our featured leader a little over a month ago at my College of Marin/Branson School event in Marin County, California (over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco). Eva saw the announcement of our event and contacted me through the hijimfielding.com website, and I invited her to our evening public event. I did not anticipate the life changing aspect of this simple and innocent exchange.

Eva walked up to us and I was instantly struck by her smile, her calm demeanor, and her confidence. I quickly learned she was a graduating senior in HIGH SCHOOL, and was heading to UC Santa Cruz in the Fall.

I was simply BLOWN AWAY. There was no way I could have done what she has done when I was 18 and heading off to Indiana University.

I asked Eva to tell you about herself in her own words and I am thrilled to share her story here. Keep an eye on this woman.

She will change the world, and impact all of her communities in so many positive ways.

This is what I LOVE about the journey I am on. Meeting amazing human beings who can make you believe in the power of their talent, dedication, and compassion.

I AM PROUD to introduce you to Eva Hellmold!

I’m Eva Hellmold, a recent high school graduate and passionate freelance graphic designer, and I’m honored to be featured here on Jim Fielding’s blog. My work spans creative disciplines and community advocacy, bridging the gap between generations and challenging the barriers that often divide us.

Growing up in a world of constant change and digital innovation, I found my voice in visual storytelling. My designs aim to capture the vibrancy and complexity of our shared human experience, connecting people across ages, backgrounds, and identities. As a freelance graphic designer, I’ve collaborated with nonprofits, community campaigns, local government and small businesses to create work that doesn’t just look pretty—it has a purpose. My portfolio, which you can explore here, reflects my commitment to using design as a tool for change and dialogue.

A central part of my journey is my campaign, Break the STIGMA, which you can learn more about at breakthestigma.net. This initiative is dedicated to amplifying the voices of the LGBTQIA+ community—particularly around mental health, where stigma often silences the most vulnerable among us. I launched this campaign to foster a world where conversations about identity, mental health, and healing are met with compassion and understanding across generations.

Break the STIGMA isn’t just a platform; it’s a call to action. It includes educational resources, toolkits, and interactive spaces for sharing lived experiences, with a special focus on LGBTQIA+ youth. Through this work, I hope to inspire both young people and older generations to challenge stigma, dismantle harmful narratives, and build spaces where everyone feels seen and valued.

My personal story is deeply rooted in the power of multigenerational exchange. Raised in a conservative environment, I’ve spent years unlearning and reshaping my understanding of gender, sexuality, and mental health. These experiences have taught me that healing and growth come from listening to those who have walked different paths before us and extending that same empathy to those still finding their way.

As I navigate the transition from high school to the wider world, I carry with me a mission to design for connection, not division. I’m driven by a vision where everyone, regardless of age or identity, can see themselves reflected and valued in the spaces we create together.

For me, intergenerational dialogue is more than a theme—it’s a necessity. It’s about recognizing that our stories don’t exist in isolation but are woven into the lives of those who came before us and those who will come after. Through my art, activism, and Break the STIGMA, I hope to inspire others to see these connections—and to honor the rich tapestry of experiences that shape us all.

Thank you for taking the time to learn a little about me and my work. I invite you to explore my portfolio and join me in this ongoing journey of listening, learning, and creating together.

Jim: THANK YOU, EVA. You make me smile, believe, and care…….It is your time to enjoy your summer, drink in every moment at UC Santa Cruz, and make positive impacts everywhere. I am so happy we met. You are a STAR!

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I know this issue was a long one. Thank you for sticking with me.

My final thought:

Maybe—just maybe—that’s the most radical thing we can do as queer people:
Keep imagining.

Keep building.

Keep believing that joy belongs to us, too.

Let’s write futures that go far beyond survival.
Let’s give the next generation something even more powerful than resilience.
Let’s give them hope—with blueprints.

Because someone, somewhere, is watching us and thinking:
“If they could dream it, maybe I can too.”

With Hope and Gratitude,

Jim

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