My friend Steve Austin was an enigma.

If you ever encountered Steve, you probably know how easily he seemed to talk about the deepest of pain and then be gut-bustingly funny.

I met Steve in 2015 or 2016, when I was trying to figure out how to exist online in a broader way. I had just started my website, and I joined what must have been a dozen groups on Facebook that had the words ‘Christian’ and ‘writers’ in the name. I posted something I’d written, and Steve responded:

“It sounds like we know the same God.”

In the summer of 2016, he became one of a handful of us who launched #ChurchMH, a weekly Twitter chat about faith & mental health. When that ended, I invited him to cohost a podcast called CXMH with me that followed the same idea. He was hesitant to add something to his plate, but agreed to be a guest on the first episode. After we recorded it, I got a text from him immediately:

“I think this is gonna help a lot of people. I’m in.”

Sometime during the first season, we got a negative review that singled out Steve’s humor as evidence we weren’t taking the topics seriously enough. When we started the next recording, I spoke like an extra boring NPR host as a joke in response; Steve got it immediately and joined in. 

During that first season of CXMH, my wife joked that I was in constant contact with Steve so much that it made her jealous.

Although he left CXMH at the end of 2017, I still feel his influence in its DNA every week. His return to the show as a guest in 2018 remains the most fun hour I’ve ever had recording something.

The show would not be what it is without him.
It probably would not have made it past a few episodes without him.
My online presence over the last few years would not be what it is without him.
My life and career, influenced greatly by all of the above, would not be what they are without him.
I would not be who I am without him.

Over the last handful of years, Steve has called himself a lot of things: life coach, emotional coach, pig raiser, church consultant, online pastor, and more. Some titles never changed: he was a husband, a dad, and a damn good friend to me. There was never a time I texted or called him that he wasn’t there for me. He could send a deep revelation about the character of God, followed by an inappropriate joke. He had a unique ability to be fully himself and, in doing so, to reassure you that you were allowed to be fully you.

He was a trauma survivor, a suicide attempt survivor, and a dedicated people-helper.

He was a ray of light in dark places, never afraid to have the conversations that many of us might’ve shied away from.

He was, in a word, Steve.

I love you. I miss you already. I love you.