Seasons of a Man

I was born Bailey Austin Steele Brown on March 12th, 1987. Every part of that name was handed down to me in one go — a family inheritance stitched together before I ever took a breath. It is not a bad name. Truthfully, it is a strong one. It served me well growing up in Old Lyme, Connecticut.

Old Lyme is where my great-grandfather, John Bailey, founded his family. It is where my grandfather, Harry Bailey, and his brother Jack grew up — learning mechanical skills before going off to war. It is where my grandfather returned when the war was over. It is where Jack was buried before the fighting was done.

My mother was raised there, right on Bailey Road. She met my father not far away in New London — she a nursing student, he at submarine school. They traveled across the country together before finally returning to Old Lyme. That is where I entered the picture.

I never hated my name. It carried me through those formative years. Through Mormonism. Through being a gas station attendant. Through working as a third-party contractor on the East Coast in my teens. Through leaving home at seventeen to lay carpet in Idaho. Through Minnesota installing alarms. Through eventually circling back to Old Lyme.

Before returning home, I had already begun shedding my Mormon skin. I came back with a tattoo, a taste for coffee, and a smoking habit. I drank when the opportunity arose. I was Bailey when I hit that tree on the night I thought I was going to die. I was Bailey when I moved back to Idaho and got married in 2007. I was Bailey when we moved to Utah in 2010. Bailey when we bought a modest trailer home in 2012.

Between 2013 and 2015, a personal renaissance was brewing.

I joined the local Chive group — you know, the KCCO crowd. “My drinking organization has a charity problem” kind of people. It was a wild time to be around. When the leader eventually disappeared, I found myself at the center of the group. Still Bailey, at least for a while.

I had a knack for keeping tabs on people. Making house calls when someone was under the weather. Noticing when someone needed a shoulder. Showing up before someone made a permanent decision on a very bad day.

Being in Utah, this naturally led to the title of Chive Bishop. It’s a Mormon thing — you can Google it.

Chive Bishop was fun. It eventually gave way to Bad Bishop. Some days I was Good Bishop. Some days I was Bad Bishop.

In 2015, I renounced my Mormon faith — something Bailey would never have done. Bailey was a people pleaser. But Bad Bishop? He was blazing new trails.

Bad Bishop drank heavier — but with more responsibility than Bailey ever had. He laughed harder. He ruffled more feathers.

He kept the Chive spirit alive and made charity events happen. He organized raffles and silent auctions. He started a woodworking and vinyl business. He became a bartender. A father. A friend.

And in 2017, he got divorced.

Bad Bishop helped rebuild self-worth and confidence in the wreckage. He rode the Chive groups out until the end of his marriage. He sang his heart out at karaoke when that was the only therapy he could afford.

He learned hard lessons about friendship, heartbreak, and loss. He weathered storms and drank countless bottles of Sailor Jerry.

He was who I became when I did not yet know who I actually was inside.

He was transformation in motion.

The most powerful of those transformations happened the night he stood beside me and wrote Dear Bishop — a letter to myself.

At the time, I thought it was survival. A man trying to hold himself together with ink and honesty.

But looking back, I see something else.

Something entirely new was beginning.

Not Bailey returning.
Not Bad Bishop evolving.

Something quieter. Something steadier.

I didn’t recognize it then. I didn’t have language for it. I just knew that for the first time, I wasn’t performing strength — I was practicing it.

That letter was not written by the rebel.
It was not written by the people pleaser.

It was written by someone who was finally willing to sit still long enough to tell the truth.

And that truth did not need a nickname.

I have always been drawn to writing. Bailey wrote. Bad Bishop wrote. But that night, Bishop bled on the page as I processed. I drank. I cried. And something inside me began to shift.

Bad Bishop carried on. The karaoke nights continued. The Sailor Jerry went down smooth. The one-night stands, the situationships, the really good times — they played out in full public view.

I had a few good, really drunk nights with friends. I had a situationship that sparked my soul. We went to a TED Talk event in Idaho Falls right before the world shut down. Shortly after, it ended — and so did my carrying on.

I was withdrawn, trying to figure out which way was up.

Welcome to 2020.

Then the world stood still, and the stages closed.

There was no one to perform Bad Bishop for.

So I Bishoped for myself.

I bought new books. I tried personal affirmations written on the mirror. I gave up the one-night stands. I gave up dating. I started learning and growing. I spent hours after work studying the writings of Gary John Bishop and John Kim, asking friends for recommendations, trying to understand myself instead of distract myself.

I stayed in that seclusion — fragile and withdrawn — until the fall of 2020.

But Bad Bishop had one more dramedy to play out. One more one-night stand that went too far. He played his part front and center until January of 2022, when I finally evicted that woman from my life.

After that parting of ways, I went full Bishop.

More books. More studying. More solo adventures.

I dated — but as Bishop, I made a rule: no relationships for one year. No jumping off the deep end into a bad decision headfirst.

Something had changed.

While Bad Bishop was not truly bad, he was not the best version of myself. He was who I needed to be to fully experience life after Bailey, life after marriage. He made up for that ten-year gap of life during my marriage.

I wrote more often. I drank less often. I was no longer drawn to the party scene. I did not play into the dramas that found me. It wasn’t that I was older or tired — I was simply uninviting to chaos. When chaos tried to date me, I sidestepped.

During that transformation, I made a really good friend who remains a good friend to this day. I began to understand clearly what I did and did not want in my life.

I was no longer willing to make myself small in a relationship to satisfy someone else’s desires. I would no longer tolerate being with someone who stood beside me but failed to truly see me.

Bishop takes up room now.

I still catch glimpses of Bad Bishop sometimes. Usually he is cheering me on as I write, as I podcast, when I go on an adventure. He never died. He simply got out of my way.

That is why I can say, with fondness, that the days of Bad Bishop closed out some time ago. I learned a lot as him. I became who I needed to be by finally just being Bishop.

You won’t catch me drunk at the bar. In fact, I haven’t been drunk since 2023. Every once in a while I’ll feed Bad Bishop a single beer, smack him on the ass, and send him onto the karaoke stage — but only on rare occasions.

The charity group days have long since passed. Too much drama. Too much chaos.

My drinking organization that had a charity problem died in Utah long ago. The memories remain, but the members dispersed.

You will find me being a dad. Spending time with my partner Shelby. Occasionally being a shoulder to lean on for a friend. And most of all, living life and sharing it honestly.

Bishop Brown :(:

Just a note: we all experience the life and death of different ideas, beliefs, and versions of ourselves throughout life. Sometimes it’s subtle, and we don’t notice until long after the dust has settled. Other times it’s loud and commanding, and our different versions feel alive enough to warrant their own identity.

Wherever you are on that journey — cheers to who you have been, who you are now, and who you are becoming.