Are We God In Drag?
"Daddy, why don't we go to church?" I asked once as a young teen, half-expecting some theological reasoning and half-hoping my lack of attendance on my weekend with him wasn't bee-lining me for hell.
After sipping his coffee, he pointed to the lake and said, "This is my church."
I initially shook off his response, but something about the wisdom stayed with me. His death in 2013 slingshotted me on a spiritual, healing quest, and over the years, I've landed on the notion that maybe heaven and hell aren't cosmic destinations but conditions we create here on Earth. Maybe God isn't only found in a pew, a scripture, or a sacred chant but also in the sound of water lapping the shore, the warmth of the sun on bare skin, the shared moment of connection with a stranger, and welp, even in the guy who frustrates me driving slow in the fast lane on the highway.
For years, I carried the weight of shame—some of it mine, but most of it projected onto me by culture, being raised in the Bible belt, and expectations I never agreed to. After years of people-pleasing, I sought self-discovery and wholeness. Less than a month after returning from yoga teacher training in 2019, I hired a mindset and business coach to help me build a freedom-based, online mentorship program. Her program was pivotal—not just in launching my work but in deepening my understanding of perception. If reality is shaped by how we see it, then shifting our perception shifts our world. If many people shift their perception, what dramatic shifts become possible for the world?
During this time, meditation became my practice of seeing clearly. As a foodie, I imagined my thoughts rolling past me on a sushi conveyor belt. If I wouldn't feed myself bad sushi, why would I feed myself toxic thoughts? Every day, I asked: What's a better feeling thought? One that works for me?
Self-care wasn't just about bubble baths and face masks— it was about devotion to myself. I lathered my body in coconut oil, whispering love to each part. The thighs I used to criticize became pillars of strength. The hips I used to hide became symbols of femininity. This slow, deliberate reclamation of my body was a rebellion against every time I had been told I was too much or not enough. I stopped seeing myself as broken and started embracing myself as whole, worthy, and, dare I say, divine.
My relationship with the word "God" evolved too. The word used to make me cringe, heavy with memories of judgment and shame. Then my coach introduced me to "GUS" (God-Universe-Source), and suddenly, I could breathe. God felt like an old friend, not a distant judge.
One hot August day that same year, I asked Gus to show me a sign of a feather if I was on the right path. Days later, while walking in the woods, I listened to a Tim Ferriss podcast. He mentioned Katharine McCormick, a woman who rebelled against MIT's dress code and refused to wear the mandatory feather hats. A wave of chills rushed over me. In that moment, God wasn't an abstract concept or something separate from me— it was in nature and synchronicity. Well, wasn't I nature too?
What if God isn't just in temples or scriptures but also in the mess, the mundane, and the maddening? What if I am God? What if we are all God experiencing ourselves through each other?
Well… that would mean God is also in our exes, our enemies, and that friend on social media demonizing everyone with different political beliefs.
Growing up, my mom often said, "Everything works out for good." In my most challenging moments, I tell myself even if I can't see it right now, I trust all things work for good. I later learned that this wisdom echoes Romans 8:28. But what about when things feel decidedly not good?
Spirit doesn't only show up when the air smells like incense and everything feels aligned. Sometimes, Spirit arrives as a rude awakening, a necessary heartbreak, a frustration that forces us to evolve. Pain can be a portal or a catalyst. Even Covid—despite the grief and chaos—gave us a glimpse into our interconnectedness.
The divine doesn't discriminate. Spirit moves through pleasure and pain, through beauty and heartbreak. And I believe there's always a pearl hidden in the turmoil—if we're willing to see it.
Ram Dass said, "Treat everyone you meet like God in drag."
That's cute when we're talking about your favorite yoga teacher. Seeing God in a sunset or a lover's embrace is easy, but a bit more challenging when looking for God in the man or woman who ghosted you. Or in the person who triggers the absolute worst in you. But what if the people who trigger us are actually showing us something we need to see? What if the triggers are glimmers in drag? What if the very quality we can't stand in someone else is a hidden fear or shadow within ourselves?
It's easy to reduce people to their 'worst' opinions or moments, but one belief doesn't define the totality of a person. Seeing the divine in others doesn't mean excusing bad behavior but recognizing their humanity. What happens when we stop seeing people as obstacles or enemies and start seeing them as walking prayers? What shifts when we stop reacting and start listening and witnessing?
Sometimes, we seek transcendence, but what if enlightenment is just really being here? Like, really tasting your coffee. Feeling the wind on your skin. Listening without planning your response.
If everything is infused with Spirit, then taking a shower, undressing, and even booty dancing in the kitchen can be acts of devotion. Our bodies are not obstacles to peace— they are the path. We meet the divine within through embodiment—whether through tantra, breathwork, or deep belly laughter.
Seeing God in everything isn't just a spiritual flex—it's a radical act of devotion. It changes how we love, create, and move through the world. When we live from this place, fear-based behaviors or beliefs can be seen as a call for more love. Curiosity replaces judgment. Compassion becomes the instinct, not the exception.
So, what happens if you see the divine in every person, every moment, every frustrating interaction? What if the next time you feel triggered, instead of reacting, you ask: what is this here to teach me?
Try experimenting with this perspective for a day and see what shifts.