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Say Yes to the Pivot By Jack Elliot-Pride Blog 2026

 

This year, I have been reading The Pivot Year by Brianna Wiest as part of my daily spiritual practice. Some days her message grabs me by the shirt collar and requires me to see things differently—to pivot. Other days, her message reinforces what I already know: life is full of pivots. Some are small, like choosing something different when a friend cancels a coffee date or your favorite restaurant closes. These pivots require only minor adjustments. Others signal major life changes and demand accommodation: a loss of vision, a broken appendage, or a health challenge that requires a modified lifestyle and a commitment to a new health regimen. Then there are the pivots that change the direction of our lives. Once they happen, life will be different. 

I’d like you to think about the ten significant pivots that have occurred in your life. Make the list, then reflect on each one. What happened? How did you transcend it? Was it a blessing in disguise? If so, why? I will offer more thoughts to consider later. In the meantime, I want to share the three most significant pivots I made in my life—and what they taught me about myself. All pivots involve choice. Sometimes we choose to take dominion over our lives and intentionally pivot. Other times, life forces us to pivot, and the choice we still have is how we respond. Here’s a secret: every pivot has a gift in it, if we are willing to see it. 

 

1959 

The first five years of my life were wonderful. I loved my life. For my brother and my mother, those same years were the opposite of my experience. My father had left us. My twelve-year-old brother had to cope without his dad, and my mom had to work to support us when no child support was coming our way. Both of them worked to make that time one of the best periods of my life, despite the disappointment and heartbreak they had to transcend. Much to my brother’s chagrin and my mother’s amusement, I loved playing dress-up. Her vanity, filled with costume jewelry, gemstones, earrings, bracelets, and necklaces, was a treasure chest of riches for me. I loved sitting next to her on her vanity bench as she adorned herself with jewelry, lipstick, rouge, and face powder. In an effort to mimic her, I’d adorn myself with some of her costume jewelry and playfully flaunt myself in the mirror as she teased and powdered my nose with the fluffy powder puff. Soon my play expanded to scarves, purses, and her high-heeled shoes. I begged for something old she could give me so I could play dress-up during my playtime. The experience brought shared laughter between us, and I adored it. Our upstairs hallway was my runway from my room to hers. Then, the summer I was about to turn six—or seven—it all changed. I had to pivot. 

She had met a wonderful man who would become my stepfather, and I adored him. He included me in many of their dates. I’m sure they had private time, but if they went to a movie, I went with them. We went to county fairs, fireworks, and concerts together. I always felt included. He even reenacted his proposal to my mother in front of me. I was ecstatic. I had never seen my mother happier, and he made me feel seen and wanted. Then, as we got closer to the wedding day, a hard pivot entered my life. 

My mom told me that I’d be changing schools, that we’d be moving into his house, and that the little game of dress-up would have to stop. 

The change in schools I could adapt to. Moving into his house, I didn’t care much for. But giving up my dress-up things—the costume jewelry I carried in my brown alligator purse, along with my compact mirror and powder puff—was met with an exasperated, “Why?” 

I was told that wasn’t something men, or even older boys, did, and that my new stepfather would no doubt dislike it. So the behavior would have to stop once we moved. I didn’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings, so I agreed to the new rule. I had to pivot. I threw away the pocketbook, earrings, and other feminine things I adored. I did so for the greater good, I convinced myself. But for the first time in my life, I believed there was a part of me that was unacceptable, something that had to be hidden and denied. No, I did not stop; my dress-up simply became clandestine and hidden. Whenever I was alone, I’d sneak into her walk-in closet and slip into her high-heeled shoes. I’d adorn myself with her jewelry and prance around the living room as if I were Judy Garland, Dinah Shore, or Barbra Streisand. I’d pull out the Hoover vacuum cleaner, unwrap the long white cord, and lace a hairbrush around the plug, pretending it was my microphone and cord. I’d pantomime to songs on the stereo and watch myself in the large mirror that adorned our living room wall. I became a master at hiding. If I heard a car pull into the drive, I could have everything put away and returned to its proper place before the front door opened. I never got caught. 

In retrospect, my stepfather never seemed to care that I   “one of the guys.” It was never a big deal to him that I wasn’t into fishing, hunting, sports, cars, or other traditionally masculine interests. I see that now. I wish I had seen it then. 

 

1977-1978 

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I turned twenty-four in 1977, and life had blessed me as I transcended coming out. In fact, it was so easy that I never really had to come out. My high school boyfriend played tackle on the high school football team, so if anyone made fun of me or tried to bully me for being feminine or not a “guy’s guy,” he took care of it. But I went away to college, and he joined the military. After college, I would have been content to become a schoolteacher, move back to our hometown, and live out my life on his farm. 

But that was not meant to be. He insisted life had more for me than a little farm west of Saratoga, Indiana, and that I needed to get myself to either New York or California. It hurt, but somehow I knew he was right. I didn’t date well. If a guy agreed to a second date, I heard wedding bells. I didn’t understand hookup culture at all, so I got my heart broken often in those first few years of adulthood. Then I met the wrong man for all the right reasons. 

It was New Year’s Eve 1977, and the disco known as “The Hunt” had Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” blasting from the sound system. It was approaching midnight, and I panicked that I would be alone, watching others kiss someone into the New Year. Then, just as I came down the spiral staircase, I spotted a college acquaintance I had never imagined was gay. It was a spontaneous moment of recognizing someone from across the room and wanting to greet him. Just as I walked over to say hello, the countdown started: ten, nine, eight... At midnight, he pulled me in for the most romantic kiss of my twenty-four years on earth. It was unexpected and wonderful. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Over the next six months, our courtship flourished. We could talk into the wee hours of the morning. We loved the same movies, food, and short car trips to interesting places. He told me that all he wanted to do next was get his master’s degree from San Francisco State University. He had completed his undergraduate studies there, and he did everything to assure me we could have a magnificent life in San Francisco. I was in love, and I was being played. He was going to California one way or another, and I was determined to be the guy who could make it happen—especially if we were going to have a life together. He enrolled in school, and I drove him to California in May 1977. I stayed for one week to see if I would like it. And like it I did. He would be starting school that fall, and in the meantime, he would look for work while I returned to Indiana to sell my things, quit my job, and load up my car again for my move to California. 

During the next six weeks, I sent care packages of food, toiletries, and little gifts to profess my love. He found “us” an apartment, and I sent him the first and last month’s rent. A few weeks later, I sent the unexpected security deposit as well. By the third week in June, my things were packed, my house was empty, and I was finishing my last day at work. My coworkers were sending me off with cake and ice cream when I was paged to return to my office to answer the phone. It was my guy on the other end of the line. “You still leaving tomorrow?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I assured him. I couldn’t wait to start our new life together. “About that,” he said. “I hope you are coming to California because you want to and not just for me.” I was stunned. Of course I was coming just for him. “Why would you say that?” I asked. 

“Well, you see, I’ve met this doctor who lives in Marin County. I’m going to be living with him. And if you are still coming out, I’d love to see you.” I didn’t answer him. I didn’t even say goodbye. I just hung up the phone. 

I walked out of the company without saying goodbye to anyone. I got in my car and started driving. I didn’t stop until I reached Denver, Colorado. I had to pivot. By the time I got to Denver, I felt I would know what was mine to do. It was halfway. I could turn around and go home, or I could go on and make a new life for myself without him. Needless to say, I chose California. Spirit kept urging me to keep going. I arrived in San Francisco the day before Pride. The next day, at Pride, I encountered hundreds of thousands of other gay people just like me. The following Tuesday, I went on my first job interview and was hired by a company that would propel me into my secular career as a human resources executive. I never saw that guy again. I was grateful he had been the catalyst for my move to California. He was the wrong guy for all the right reasons. My pivot point was to go back or go forward. I had to choose. I chose going forward. 

 

2004 

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I grew up loving newspapers. My parents subscribed to five newspapers every day: two conservative, two liberal, and one local paper. One day in 2004, I was reading the Tracy Press and came across an article about a local school board denying a Muslim cleric the opportunity to speak at the high school. As I read on, I realized that while Christian clergy were often invited to speak, other denominations were not—and, according to some, should not be included. Reading this angered me. Before I left for work, I found myself at my computer writing a letter to the editor. I wrote about the separation of church and state and argued that everyone needed to be invited to the table, or no one should be allowed at the table. My arguments were published in the Friday edition of the Tracy Press. The letter sparked discussion among readers. Responses came in, and healthy dialogue unfolded. The publishers loved it. The following week, a reporter called and asked to interview me about my letter. During the interview, I casually mentioned that I was an ordained minister and openly gay. The interview covered a variety of topics, including whether the Bible was the “literal” or “inspired” word of God, and it provoked even more conversation. More letters to the editor followed. More community engagement followed. Again, the newspaper publishers loved it. It sold newspapers. The next thing I knew, the publisher invited me to become a weekly columnist. Oh, how I wanted to say yes. But suddenly, that little boy who had to hide his desire to play dress-up was front and center. I am somewhat dyslexic, and I cannot spell. It was a shameful attribute I had managed to hide for most of my adult life. I was at a pivot point. I could say yes to something I truly wanted to do, or I could pivot back into the shadows of my shame, keeping yet another secret safe inside me. 

I decided to put all my cards on the table. I told the publisher about my dyslexia and spelling challenges. She smiled at my candor. “Turn around, Jack. Tell me what you see.” 

I turned around in the newsroom and noticed eight or so people typing away at their computers. “Jack, these are our copy editors. You tell your stories. They will correct the spelling and grammar errors. It’s what they do. You need to go and do what you do. Write!” 

More than three hundred columns later, I became the editor of the weekend tabloid called Tracy Our Town, a thirty-five-page weekend supplement filled with life-affirming stories, profiles, and good news. Because I said yes to pivoting toward something that scared me, I have written three plays, a novel, a blog, and countless essays telling amazing stories that otherwise might not have been told. 

There have been other major pivot points in my life. When I look back, I can see that miracles are born from saying yes to being willing to pivot. In my secular career, I had the pleasure of working for two Japanese-owned companies. Much of what I learned about organizational design and structure came from Japanese management protocols. One protocol I learned to appreciate was the willingness to “go see.” If someone from the manufacturing floor had a design idea or a better way of doing something, Japanese management was willing to go see the idea in practice. Sometimes they said no, and sometimes they modified the idea, but most frequently, they said yes to innovation. They were willing to say yes to a new idea—to go see if something might be for the greater good. Because I was willing to go see and say yes to the pivot, I have had an amazing life. I have owned three homes that, statistically, I should never have been able to afford. There is an affirmative prayer attributed to Aladdin that goes something like this: “I bought a house that wasn’t for sale, from the proceeds earned from selling a house that couldn’t be sold.” I went from being a personnel clerk to a C-suite executive as a vice president of human resources and operations. I championed mergers and acquisitions on behalf of international companies because I was willing to go see and say yes to new opportunities. 

And when my beloved friends were dying of AIDS and no mortuary would prepare their bodies for burial—or ministers would officiate their funerals or memorials—I decided to pivot and turn my studies in theology into becoming an ordained minister. I wanted to be there for them when traditional religion shunned them. I pivoted into my spirituality, and because I said yes, I have had more than forty years as a spiritual life coach, minister, and motivational speaker. 

So now that I am in my seventies, why wouldn’t I continue to do what I know works? I will say yes to pivoting whenever life demands it. It always works out for my highest and best when I say yes to the pivot. 

Now, in the comments below, tell me about a time when you said yes to the pivot and it turned out to be for your highest and best. I’ve told you my stories; now, you tell me yours. —Jack