God in Drag follows last week’s piece. A reminder that the divine doesn’t just visit the holy places—it walks with us in all our contradictions. E.Z.
“Treat everyone you meet like God in drag.” – Ram Dass
We are all—
God
dressed in drag.
Yes.
Feathers, fishnets,
fists raised in anger,
eyes rimmed with grief.
Some of us in heels,
some in handcuffs,
some barefoot in the dust of memory.
We are the Divine
in disguise.
Stumbling, shining,
hurting, healing,
holy.
You.
Me.
The one who lied.
The one who left.
The one who couldn’t stay sober.
The preacher.
The prisoner.
The man who broke his child’s trust.
The child who never had a chance.
I have been all of them.
I have broken a heart
that was deeply devoted to me.
And I knew it.
I knew it as I watched him fold his love
like a letter no one wanted to read.
Forgiveness?
I thought it was something to offer others.
But I was starving for it myself.
For the grace
of still being worthy
after making a mess of something sacred.
I have whispered prayers
with wine on my breath,
and still,
Love showed up.
Not judging.
Not scolding.
Just sitting beside me
until I remembered who I was.
Because that’s the secret:
We forget.
We are not bad—
we are bruised.
We are not evil—
we are echoing our injuries
until someone soft enough
hears the pain
under the performance.
So look again.
Look with softer eyes.
At the girl with too much makeup
and too few boundaries.
At the boy who robs
because it feels like being seen.
At the angry ones,
the arrogant ones,
the awkward ones
who’ve never been hugged right.
Look again.
See God in drag.
Twirling, falling,
taking it,
trying to feel beautiful
in this body of contradiction.
See this girl—
A star seed soul
trying to shine in a world
that never made space for her frequency.
But she shines anyway.
Because she came here
to bring light.
See this boy—
braver than I ever was—
coming out,
knowing he would lose
most of what he called home.
But choosing truth
over silence.
And now—
They try to silence the shimmer.
To outlaw the art
of becoming.
To ban the queens
who read stories to children
because they dare to teach
that love wears many faces.
But here’s what they forget:
Drag isn’t a costume.
It’s revelation.
A holy reminder
that we are not our bodies—
We are the breath behind the body,
the brilliance within the skin.
Born naked—
the rest is drag.
We are all queens
of becoming.
Extensions of the power
that lit the stars.
Here on purpose.
Now.
In this wild, unfinished, aching,
extraordinary moment.
So let them legislate their fear—
But I will keep loving
in rhinestones and rage,
in sequins and scripture,
in fishnets and forgiveness.
Because I know the truth:
God
has always
been in drag.
