Embracing Veganism
My Journey Toward Ethical Liberation
TW: Animal cruelty and death
It was 2003. I was standing in the doorway of the barn on my third host family’s farm in Belgium, where the pigs were kept. I was ten months into a high school exchange program, doing an additional senior year before heading to college. The butchers had come to slaughter a pig, and my host mom had asked if I wanted to help. I would have said no—if it hadn’t been for the fight a few days earlier between my 14-year-old host brother and me. He had accused me of not helping enough around the farm, and my host parents sided with him, saying I didn’t show enough interest in their way of life.
Looking back, I can understand his frustration. While he mucked the cow and pig stalls, I was off gallivanting around Belgium with the friends I had made over the past ten months. The truth was, I wasn’t cut out for farm life or farm work. Despite growing up in a rural part of Ohio, surrounded by agriculture—where many of my classmates raised animals for 4-H and lived on farms—I hadn’t. I was (and still am) sensitive to bad smells and hated (and still do) hot manual labor.
My host mom—may she rest in peace—had told me that while I wasn’t there to work for them, I could at least show more interest in the farm, maybe follow along and learn what they were doing. I promised I would try harder with the little time I had left, but the truth was, being around the animals made me uncomfortable. Seeing them confined like that, with so little space, left me unsettled. I was also still struggling with PTSD, triggered by my extreme ornithophobia. The anxiety was heightened after I had been punished for getting blackout drunk at a Belgian classmate’s birthday party and vomiting all over my shared room with my host brother. As punishment, I had been forced to seal the wooden fowl coop, the very thing that terrified me most.
Despite my lingering trauma, I agreed to help with the slaughter. I can still remember the scene in haunting detail.
I stood in the barn doorway. My host mom, in her navy blue coveralls and knee-high Wellington boots, watched the two butchers—also in coveralls and boots—enter the pen. They moved toward the pigs, who immediately began screaming, as though they knew exactly what was coming. There were at least half a dozen pigs crowded together, but the butchers singled one out, wrestling it away from the group.
What happened next caught me completely off guard.
One of the butchers grabbed a massive sledgehammer leaning against the barn wall. Not the kind you’d find in a toolbox—but the kind you see at carnivals to test someone’s strength. Just like those carnival games, he hoisted the sledgehammer high above his head—then brought it crashing down on the pig’s skull.
The pig shrieked in agony. It collapsed, writhing on the ground, unable to move. But it was still alive.
My host mom turned to me and told me to grab a bucket. I couldn’t move. I was frozen, horrified. I didn’t want to be part of this. She shouted more forcefully, breaking my trance, and I ran to the shed where the tools were kept, grabbing the nearest bucket without fully understanding why she needed it.
When I returned, the butcher was striking the pig’s head again, crushing its skull. The screaming stopped. The pig lay silent now, its human-like eyes still open and staring. The other pigs had retreated to the far corner of the pen, huddled together in terrified silence.
The butchers tied a rope around the pig’s hind legs, hoisted it over a rafter, and hung the body upside down. The second butcher took the bucket from my hands, placed it beneath the pig, and slit its throat. The blood poured out in thick waves, and I later learned it would be used for blood meal.
The entire ordeal lasted only three or four minutes. But it felt like it stretched forever.
When it was over, my host mom turned to me, grinning. She had always been amused by my culture shock and loved poking fun at how I reacted to things she found completely ordinary. Laughing, she told me I could go and added, almost cheerfully, that if I wanted to watch them butcher the pig, they’d be doing it in the dining room.
I did not, in fact, stay to watch them butcher the pig.
That night, I wrote my final journal entry of the entire exchange year. In it, I swore I would become a vegetarian.
I didn’t, however, become a vegetarian, and it would take more than 20 years for me to recognize that being a vegetarian wouldn’t be enough. For years, when the topic of vegetarianism or veganism came up—before deconstructing my Christian faith—I used to say that God put animals on this earth for humans to consume. I used to argue that humans needed animal protein to survive. Of course, this was all based on unfounded assumptions due to misinformation and a lack of critical thinking, cultural conditioning, and exposure to the realities of animal agriculture (among other truths). I had accepted these beliefs without questioning their origins, relying on inherited narratives rather than seeking evidence or considering the ethical implications of my choices.
I also put vegetarianism and veganism in the same category. I thought of them simply as diets. I never really looked into what it meant to be a vegan or a vegetarian. I loved meat and cheese too much. I could never see myself living without them.
Over the last 15 years, I began actively deconstructing everything I had been taught—my faith, my whiteness, my understanding of gender, sexuality, and power. I began learning about systemic racism, capitalism, and the broader principles of social justice. What started as personal reflection grew into a moral awakening, challenging me to confront the ways I had been complicit in systems of harm and oppression. Through this process, my moral philosophy has evolved to center the collective liberation of all sentient beings—humans, non-human animals, and the earth itself.
I have come to understand that all forms of exploitation and oppression are interconnected, feeding off the same patterns of domination, control, and profit-driven harm. The subjugation of animals in factory farms, the exploitation of workers in slaughterhouses, the destruction of ecosystems for profit—they are all linked, part of a system that values power over empathy. True justice requires rejecting not just individual acts of harm but the entire framework that justifies and perpetuates it.
That is why I decided to commit fully to living in alignment with my values on January 1, 2025. Choosing veganism, I realized, wasn't just about what I ate—it was about embodying justice, compassion, and non-violence in every area of my life. It became clear that true liberation requires rejecting all forms of exploitation, whether directed at humans, animals, or the earth itself.
What is Veganism Exactly?
I know for many people in my life, my decision to go vegan may feel surprising, confusing, or even difficult to understand. That's why I want to explain what veganism truly means to me—not just as a personal choice but as a reflection of my deeply held values of collective liberation. I want to share how it aligns with my evolving understanding of justice, empathy, and rejecting all forms of harm and oppression.
Veganism is often misunderstood as merely a diet focused on avoiding animal products, but it is much more than what’s on the plate. At its core, veganism is a comprehensive ethical stance and way of life, rooted in the belief that all sentient beings—humans and non-human animals alike—deserve to live free from harm, exploitation, and violence. While choosing plant-based foods is part of the practice, it is only one expression of a broader moral commitment to justice and compassion.
At the heart of veganism is the principle that it is morally wrong to cause unnecessary harm to sentient beings. Justice requires acknowledging that animals have intrinsic worth and moral consideration, not as commodities for human use but as individuals with their own experiences, desires, and capacity for suffering. Veganism demands consistency in this moral stance: if harming animals for pleasure, tradition, or convenience is unjustifiable, that principle must extend beyond food choices and into all areas of life.
Veganism challenges speciesism, the belief that human interests automatically outweigh those of other species, regardless of the suffering inflicted. It calls for the recognition of animals as beings with the right to live free from harm, rejecting the notion that their lives exist solely for human benefit. This ethical stance pushes back against the use of animals for clothing, entertainment, testing, and labor, acknowledging that industries like leather, wool, circuses, zoos, and animal testing perpetuate systemic harm under the guise of tradition and necessity.
But veganism’s reach goes even further—it intersects deeply with other struggles for justice. The systems that exploit animals are often the same systems that commodify marginalized human communities, destroy ecosystems, and prioritize profit over life. The exploitation of workers in factory farms, the environmental devastation caused by deforestation for animal agriculture, and the destruction of Indigenous lands for livestock production all stem from the same roots: control, dominance, and profit-driven harm. Veganism, therefore, isn't just about what we eat but how we choose to participate in a world where multiple forms of oppression are interconnected.
This ethical framework also extends to environmental justice. Industrial animal agriculture is one of the leading contributors to deforestation, water pollution, biodiversity loss, and greenhouse gas emissions. A vegan lifestyle reduces the demand for industries responsible for immense environmental degradation, making it not only a moral choice but a practical one for protecting the planet and future generations.
Embracing veganism means questioning cultural norms that normalize violence and exploitation. It calls for rethinking everyday consumption choices—whether buying cruelty-free products, rejecting entertainment that exploits animals, or avoiding industries that thrive on harm. Veganism urges individuals to make conscious choices that reflect values of empathy, fairness, and sustainability.
At its core, veganism is an expansion of compassion, rejecting the idea that some lives matter less than others. It asks us to recognize our capacity for kindness and extend it beyond our species, embracing the belief that all sentient beings deserve dignity and freedom from harm.
Ultimately, veganism is not just a personal choice but a moral commitment to justice, non-violence, and equality for all sentient life. It challenges deeply ingrained cultural norms, advocating for systemic change and personal accountability. While I've had friends who have been vegan for years, this shift was not something anyone could have convinced me of. It was a personal journey—one that I had to arrive at in my own time, through reflection, learning, and deconstructing the beliefs I had once accepted without question. I came to understand that veganism is not just about avoiding animal products; it is a conscious rejection of harm and exploitation in all forms, rooted in a desire to create a world where liberation extends to all beings—humans, animals, and the earth itself.
In my journey of learning about and understanding veganism, I am committed to centering the voices of Black, Indigenous and other people of the global majority—those whose experiences, wisdom, and advocacy have long been marginalized within mainstream vegan spaces. I recognize that the dominant narrative around veganism has often been shaped by whiteness, cisnormativity, straight privilege, and wealth, which can obscure the deep-rooted connections between animal liberation, human liberation, and environmental justice. True collective liberation requires acknowledging the ways power structures intersect and perpetuate harm, and I am committed to amplifying perspectives that challenge these systems while honoring the diverse cultural histories of plant-based living that have existed long before Western veganism.