Aleksander Constantinoropolous on Father Nathan Monk

This broke me open in the best way. You’ve named something most of us never find language for—the way violence becomes familiar, even familial. How it slips into the background hum of poverty, trauma, masculinity, and just… living. And then one moment—a man with a gun, an eyepatch, a cooler—pulls every buried memory up like blood rising to the skin. What struck me most wasn’t just your bravery in the moment, but the aching, sacred pivot at the end: from surviving as expected to wanting to survive. That shift—however fragile—is holy ground. Thank you for walking us through your ghosts. I hope you get every quiet morning, every grandbaby, every last “I love you.” We need more people who choose life after staring down the tombstone and whispering, “Not yet.”