I Was Never Her

Visibility isn't always loud - sometimes it looks like survival, softness, or simply holding hands.

Burying Myself to Belong

Identity has been a big challenge for me in my adult life. Growing up, I buried this part of myself—maybe unknowingly, maybe not. This is a story I’ve wanted to share for a long time, and one I've been scared to tell. But in the spirit of being messy and authentic, I think it's finally time.

Looking back, my upbringing shaped much of how I struggled with identity.

Ours was more of a Christmas-and-Easter kind of Christian household. I went to church camp a couple of times and just wanted to fit in, wherever I was. I would take on whatever identity I needed for community and what I thought was belonging. I’ve learned the difference now and know that trying to fit in never truly created community or belonging. Regardless, I did as I was told and did my best to make everyone around me 1) like me and 2) be proud of me. Being gay? That never earned me the proud card in my family.

The Church, the Mask, and the Silence

I tried having boyfriends growing up—hidden relationships from my parents because of a no-dating rule. They knew about them, mostly because I wasn’t very serious. Those relationships never felt authentic to me (knowing now that I’m absolutely attracted to women, this makes sense). It didn’t help that some of those relationships fell into the category of sexual harassment at best, sexual assault at worst. But for me, you didn’t talk about the bad things that happened to you because it would either not be believed or would be downplayed. You play the part everyone else is playing—especially in high school—just to fit in.

It wasn't until I left home that I began to see how much I'd been performing. After leaving my hometown to go to college, I got mixed with a different kind of church crowd. I fell deep into that religion, trying to find more belonging and only finding more disappointment, more sadness. I couldn’t name it at the time because I didn’t know how inauthentic I was truly being. I went to all the events, tried being the best disciple I could, all the while battling my mental health in silence and hiding my self-harm from everyone.

Love, Loss, and Coming Out

About a year later, I met my first love, my ex. She taught me how to start being authentic. I came out to who I’d assumed were friends, only to find out they wanted to "pray away the gay" for me and my then-partner. I chose authenticity over friendship and walked away from that organization and the group of people I’d considered my community for over two years.

But choosing authenticity—and choosing her—meant letting go of something I'd held onto for years. My parents had come up for my birthday. I hadn’t come out to them yet, mostly because of a brief conversation with my dad the previous Christmas. He’d asked if I’d ever had feelings for my childhood best friends. The question caught me off guard. I never felt for my friends what I now feel for my wife or past partners. Maybe there were subconscious feelings I didn’t know how to name, but I never once had the thought of dating them. So I answered honestly: no, I hadn't.

The conversation came out of nowhere, and the look of skepticism—and maybe slight relief—that crossed my dad’s face made it clear what his thoughts and beliefs were. Truthfully, his homophobia had shown itself throughout my life, and I’ve had to deconstruct that internalized homophobia in myself too.

The Birthday That Broke Me

So when my parents came up for my birthday, we went out to lunch, and at the restaurant, my dad outed me: flat-out asked if I was in a homosexual relationship with my partner. After I confessed, what followed was fifteen minutes of hell. My dad berated me in the restaurant, in the car on the way back, and again at my apartment—he even kicked my dog out of the way when he was just trying to come to me.

I couldn’t stop crying, but inside, I felt nothing. The dissociation I felt that day was intense: it was like watching someone else fall apart from up above.

My partner wasn’t home, for fear of being outed before I was ready. They’d been texting the whole time, hiding in the back of the apartment complex so they could come to me the moment my parents left.

The next few days were told to me by my partner: I have no memory of them. I had blacked out and only know what unfolded from secondhand accounts. My partner found me in the kitchen with a knife to my wrist, cuts fresh. Self-harm wasn’t new to me—it was my go-to when feelings and thoughts got overwhelming. She called me out of work the next three days and helped me take care of myself.

Scars That Don’t Fade

That experience left scars, in more ways than one. My relationship with my parents has never been the same. While they’ve continued to try and regain access to my life over the years, I can’t forget—and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive. Over a decade has passed, and yet their words still echo inside me.

Their actions carved something permanent into me. Some days, I still believe I’m not fully lovable—solely for who I love.

I’ve had to do a lot of therapeutic work since then: rewiring my brain to love myself, reparenting myself in ways I never got growing up.

I’ve spent so long trying to be who others wanted, or who I assumed I needed to be. Now, I’m done performing. I’m becoming who I am – and letting that be enough.

Enough Is Enough

There’ve been multiple incidents since with my parents that led me to finally say: enough. If they can’t truly love me, not despite who I love, but because of all that I am, I will continue choosing myself and my happiness.

So I have.

For the past two years, I’ve loved my wife and lived our life as fully as we could, while still feeling suffocated by a town—and a state—that didn’t accept us. Not fully.

That meant constantly being on guard: not holding hands in certain venues, being cautious about when we used nicknames or pet names because of the looks and snarls. Then the election happened—and with it, the looming threat of Project 2025. We felt it was only a matter of time before things got worse. So we did our homework. We searched for a place that would accept us without question.

Love Without Looking Over Our Shoulders

Now in Colombia, we don’t have to look over our shoulders for fear of being outed. Bigotry exists everywhere, and I’m not naive to think otherwise. But here, there’s been a reprieve. We’ve been able to let down our armor and just be.

It’s not loud. Sometimes it’s simply holding hands while walking down the street. Or resting my hand on the small of her back as we pass someone on the sidewalk.

For me, this is the proudest I’ve ever allowed myself to feel. And it’s such an amazing feeling—to be out and proud, free and authentic.

Carrying Everything I Used to Hide

My old life carried everything I used to hide—and for the first time, I didn't need to bury any of it.

Every suitcase I packed carried my identity—queer, complicated, brave. I’m home.