How Surgery Unveiled My Hero's Journey and a Renewed Spirit

by Ty Andrews

I said yes to repairing my body, and was met with a prepared surgery kit to heal my spirit.

Healing requires honesty and making peace with the past. I spent years building a foundation on someone else’s land.

In 2013, I was married at the Wilshire Ebell Theatre in Beverly Hills, CA. The timing was historic. The Supreme Court had just cleared the way for marriage equality, and our union was a legal step forward for the LGBTQ community. Those are rights that are now being openly stripped away by the current administration. The ceremony was officiated by Louise Hay, who was my "wasband's" personal mentor. Prior to becoming a world reknown bestselling self-help publisher and pioneer, she was also a pioneer who healed herself of breast cancer and provided sanctuary for people living with AIDS.

I didn't know Louise Hay, or Weezie as I affectionately referred to her, as much as I wanted. She did teach me through her battle with cancer and reading her New York Times bestselling book You Can Heal Your Life how to embrace your emotional state when your body is in dis-ease. I was amazed how down to earth she was. She had a certain Mae West vibe and loved to paint. When we met her in person to sign our wedding papers, she had pink hair, and the candor of a true queen. Leaning in the doorway with one hand on her hip, she said in a sassy voice, “Get your asses in here.” I was stunned and hooked.

In my eyes she was the Pope of a self-help empire. I remember her wearing a twenties style outfit with a black feather boa and even called me Tyrone Powers during our wedding ceremony. The running joke back then was that we may not have been legally married anyway since she couldn't get my name right. Louise officiating our marriage during her historic “Hayride” reunion was an unimaginable day of high hopes where I did the ugly cry right there onstage. But the years that followed revealed a painful reality.

I was the “first gent” of a spiritual director at a church in Atlanta that served as a premiere sanctuary for the New Thought community. It was a diverse space that attracted hundreds. As a biracial couple–my wasband being a white, charismatic, and heartfelt speaker and myself being Black, heavily involved in the music team and providing branding support–our representation was uniquely dynamic and it mattered. As a PK (preacher kid), I felt like I was married to a congregation as well, and it was already familiar. I thought it my duty to be perfect in a philosophy that taught you should think positive no matter what. I helped build the digital and visual foundation of that ministry, managing the website, content, and branding that are still being used today. However, I was the architect of a public image that didn't reflect my private reality.

While he provided the financial anchor for our home and paid most of the rent, my own health insurance was treated as a secondary thought. The church provided support for his nearly $1000 premium health care plan that didn’t  include me. As a freelancer living with HIV, I was left to scramble for the lowest tier coverage I could afford.

The Affordable Care Act (ACA), aka Obama Care, provided healthcare stability. Before then, consultants like me were often one medical emergency away from ruin. Because I am a computer wizard with a knack for research, I dove into the data myself. I found cost savings he was unaware of and moved us to a plan in my name to ensure we were both protected at a much lower cost. I managed the logistics of our care, but even before our separation and divorce, I was depending on state assistance for meds and general care just to stay afloat. Despite all that, I was called “heartless” when those ties were cut.

Passing David Ave near the hospital for my surgery in 2026 felt like a ghost waving from the street. It was a reminder of the person I used to be, the one who waited for permission to be loved and protected. As I headed toward the operating room, I was nervous because it was essentially the first major surgery I have had in my 51 years on this planet. Not a bad run. However, I also knew the days of being a secondary thought were over. If God is a provider of all things, I needed reassurance more than ever that he, she, or them had my back.

444

444 was on my phone, my email, and the buildings surrounding the hospital. In the language of numerology, four represents protection and stability. Seeing number patterns is an insightful gift and recurrence I’ve noticed over the past decade. Some people refer to them as Angel numbers, while others see it as a wake up call from the Universe to pay attention and know your spiritual guidance is present. The Universe was loud. Seeing 444 repeatedly was a confirmation that the structure I have built here in California as Senior Communications Specialist, writer, and consultant is solid. Over the years, I leaned on my past experience as a Creative Director and working with advertising giants to fuel my livelihood. I did not enter that hospital as a dependent. I was the administrator of my own care.

It is Mercury Retrograde as I write this. I learned to value the science and metaphysics of astrology at an early age as our ancient ancestors did. While many fear this as a time of technical mishaps and cosmic chaos, I see it as a maintenance window for self care. Mercury is the planet of communication, and as it appears to move backward. Re-trograde invites us to do the same–revise, review, renew–basically slow down and be mindful of what is happening around you. It is a season for re-visiting the past to ensure life is sound. While the surgeon was re-pairing my core, I realized I was repairing a broken spirit. I chose to fix the misalignment that the heavy lifting of the past year, and the past decade, had physically knocked me out of place.

Texts from work colleagues poured in, assuming my time off should be a working one. When the nurse asked if I wanted to keep my phone during the prep, I said, "No, take it!” I performed my first surgical act right then. I secured a boundary and cut the noise. I jokingly asked the nurse if I could keep the wheelchair when it was time to leave because my living situation is not very ADA compliant and has many stairs.

I was humbled by their offer to provide transportation after my initial plans fell through. The doctor and entire staff service was exceptional.

Prior to surgery, I had a plan for my own recovery. I bought groceries, meal prepped, did laundry, and organized my home so everything I could think of needing would be accessible. I tried to prepare for every possibility, but you can’t prepare for a broken elevator.

When I arrived home from the hospital, two flights of stairs by my front door would have been a painful climb in my condition. I chose the alternative route, a shorter flight of stairs by the broken elevator. At first, I did not think I could make it, but as I inched my way up one step at a time, I heard an inner voice say, “It’s okay to take your time and move slow.” Three different neighbors offered to help. None of them were people of color, but the racial barriers that usually dictate my navigation in the world paused. A young guy called me "Sir," and my armor began to crack. I realized then that I had been wearing the heavy gear of a soldier for decades, always ready to defend or prove myself for the next set of marching orders. But a soldier cannot heal while he is still at war. Getting older can suck, but this time I felt a different kind of visibility and respect.

My surgery relit a ministry of mindfulness. I was reminded of Joseph Campbell, a mythologist and scholar who studied the common threads across all religions. Simply put, stories from every walk of life from ancient African folktales to modern faith, depict the hero surviving a trial and finding the strength to return home to live the lesson. Standing at the bottom of those stairs with a broken elevator, I realized this surgery was my “return." The trial wasn't just the four incisions in my abdomen. It was the decade of pressure that led to them. I wasn't just a patient in recovery; I was a hero returning to my own life with a rhythm that finally belonged to me.

Three different neighbors offered to help. None of them were people of color, but the racial barriers that usually dictate my navigation in the world paused. A young guy called me "Sir," and my armor began to crack. I realized then that I had been wearing the heavy gear of a soldier for decades, always ready to defend or prove myself for the next set of marching orders. But a soldier cannot heal while he is still at war. Getting older can suck, but this time I felt a different kind of visibility and respect.

As I slowly walked home, I began to cry on the last stretch and after I made it inside. It was the same kind of ugly cry I did on that stage when I married. As someone who advocates for vulnerable communities daily, I was not just crying for my own pain. I was crying for the constant setbacks and distrust in America from a corrupt administration, for those suffering under a lack of healthcare access I could now afford, for the wars, and for the liberation of knowing I can make it on my own. I wept for the centuries of systemic oppression and the exhaustion of being a Black gay man living with HIV, climbing a system designed to keep me at the bottom. I even wept for the loss of my furry baby boy Parker, realizing I hadn't finished grieving him. I wept with gratitude because even while in physical pain, I was still shown kindness in a world of chaos and I deserve it.

I loved my ex-husband. I was faithful and did my best with what I knew. I was the one who often nursed him through illness, cooked the meals, and helped keep our home and dogs cared for, all while navigating the world without the same health insurance he was afforded. While the congregation gossiped that I was a "kept man," the reality was that I was a caretaker of a foundation that wasn't mine.

I remember him scheduling a surgery on my birthday. My gift that year was a cake brought to the hospital by a congregant and a Facebook shoutout. It was a public performance that masked the private pain. I chose to gift myself something else. I went to an ecstatic dance event that evening where a dear friend performed and gave me my first djembe drum. I had played drums in my father’s church since I was a child, but this felt different. It was like finding my own primal rhythm again. I danced so hard that night I had blisters on my feet. I didn't know back then that the drum I received would would have so much impact. I learned about the African origin of djembe drums and taught hand drumming classes for school children and adults in Atlanta to encourage creative expression, build community and well-being.

When the foundation finally crumbled, he didn't just ask me to leave. He told me, “Our lease is up in a few months. I’m going to find somewhere to live and you do the same.” In that moment, I was no longer a husband. I was an evicted tenant whose lease had expired.

I moved into my office in the basement. Our offices were actually next to each other down there. My dog Parker and I stayed in mine together, and we didn't speak for an entire month. I noticed that a painting of us gifted by a congregant near the entrance of our offices was removed. I was alone living in the shadows of a home I had helped maintain. Shortly after, I moved out for good.

While searching for my tribe of support, I unknowingly befriended his future partner during our separation while we were doing Kirtans together. After an event we did together, I finally shared who I was separated from, they looked up at me and said his full name in surprise. I stopped following him on social media and had moved on, but after I relocated to Los Angeles, close friends told me the relationship had been made public.

A hernia is an eruption. It happens when internal pressure breaks through the wall meant to contain it. The surgeon made four incisions in my abdomen to repair the wall and address the bulge in my lower right groin, a physical trauma I’m glad I didn’t have to be awake for. He mentioned this repair would also help minimize the right hip pain I’ve been carrying daily since my move last year. While I was being prepped, the pressure of the outside world still tried to push through. 

Ironically, that same person who brought me a birthday cake in the hospital was the one who opened her doors for me. I spent a year couch surfing. It was a time of instability but also rediscovery. The person who eventually offered me a job in Los Angeles remembered me from the Atlanta church after she attended years prior.

Even then, I was following my passion, performing as a lead singer and leader of a 7-piece band. I drove the company van with trailer, purchased PPE to keep us safe, hired musicians, conducted rehearsals and worked with event planners. I revived the social media and kept us working through the pandemic lockdown by writing a COVID safety contract for the company owners and event clients. As a band leader, I felt our onstage performances would suffer if we didn’t have trust and chemistry behind the curtain, so we had checkin conversations on Zoom where a safe, COVID-free space was created for everyone to feel supported and heard. 

Additionally, I worked to create over 30 online music classes for school students. Since basic commodities were scarce, I taught them how to make various instruments from household materials to promote recycling and learn about different cultures. When I finally moved to California, the band had nearly 45 gigs on the books. Today, my sister friend who I couch surfed with and drove cross country with me during my move to LA is preparing to step into the role of Spiritual Director at that very same church.

As I laid on the hospital bed for my own surgery, I watched my feet and legs in the same position after the ecstatic dance. This time they weren't blistered. I was wearing comfortable socks, what my mom calls “footies”. I was grateful to see my legs being carefully wrapped for compression by the very same insurance provider I had once wondered about from the outside. Although a bit nervous, I finally surrendered to a sense of safety and stability I had built for myself.

My takeaway? Your health is wealth, full stop. Have a rest plan-not just when you’re sick, but because you deserve it. Stress is the enemy of healing. 

I have forgiven him because I understand pain differently now. Everyone has a story. My journey through health and healing has taught me why pain is caused and how to deal with it. Sitting in church doesn't make anybody superior. I have seen how easily a spiritual platform can be used to mask the truth. True spirituality and wholeness isn't found in the performance of a Sunday service. It is in how you apply what you have been taught when your world is falling apart. I have learned that you can’t force others to see your value, but you can determine how you see your own worth. Finally, I chose to see the protection in the rejection and face my own shadows instead of hiding behind a forced smile.

The vision board I didn’t know I had already created

This month marks 39 years since my drawing of underwater sea life was published in the March 1987 issue of Highlights Magazine. I was an 11-year-old in Lynn Haven, Florida, dreaming of the ocean.

I have my mother to thank for nurturing the artist in me and taking the step to submit that drawing. I’m grateful she and my church community saw my value as an artist before the world did, and I entered many contests as a kid.

Today, I am recovering while living by the ocean I once only dreamed of drawing.

Sometimes we have to break to realize that the walls we built are no longer serving us. My greatest assets are not the millions of dollars or files I produce for companies or the labor I give for free. It is my health, joy, knowing my self worth, and having peace of mind. 

I sat on my patio for the first time since surgery, drinking tea and meditating in front of a large tree. Parker’s ashes are in an urn nested in one of the plants. A large blackbird landed nearby and its call was percussive. It was a rhythm of six low notes followed by two high notes. I thought of Weezie at the Ebell in her black fringe, draped in that black feather boa. I wondered if this was her final, sassy check-in to make sure I was finally listening to my body.

I have many percussion instruments now. I can’t lift more than 10 pounds while recovering, so I found the notes on my Doumbek, a very light Middle Eastern drum and played them back.

The blackbird reminded me that my rhythm is returning, and for the first time in a long time, it is completely my own.

My foundation is built. Now, I am just taking it one step at a time.

*************

Sources for Further Reading

On Healing and the Body

• Louise Hay (1926–2017): A self-help pioneer who looked at how our thoughts and history show up as physical "dis-ease." She created "The Hayride" in West Hollywood to support people living with HIV/AIDS when few others would.

  
  

• The Book: You Can Heal Your Life (1984)

• The Legacy: The Hay Foundation

  
  

On the Hero’s Journey

• Joseph Campbell (1904–1987): A writer and scholar who realized that whether it’s an ancient African folktale or a modern religion, we all tell the same story of surviving a trial and returning home changed.

  
  

• The Book: The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949)

• The Interview: The Power of Myth (1988)