“Who am I apart from my history and the roles I have played?” – James Hollis, The Middle Passage.

Today I will walk in the Pride Parade. My first one. It’s a big deal.

I’m not gonna lie, there will be ample self-talk into the mirror beforehand. Arguing with the voice of internalized homophobia that began some time in the late-’80s (around the time I realized it was not ok to have a crush on the girl who lived by the candy store even if she did, indeed, look like Atreyu from The Neverending Story; that’s how I justified it to myself). Catholic school in a small town – void of diversity at the time – created the perfect petri dish for internalized homophobia to bloom. Especially within a die-hard people-pleaser like me. 

I was not going to let any adult in my life down. Much less Jesus. 

But unlike “feelings”, which pass, what I was (often subconsciously) trying to conceal was a deeply entrenched part of myself, woven – for better or for worse – into the fabric of my being. As much as I tried to write it off as just a perverse little anomaly that would go away in time if I just stuck to the script of what is right/okay/acceptable/lovable/safe… it wasn’t going away.

Rather, it grew as I grew. It matured as I matured, moving from my subconscious to the forefront of my conscious mind. Until, in my fifth decade of life, it said “do or die”. I fought with everything in me to continue to stuff it down to spare my beautiful husband and children the pain of my deafening truth. I will destroy everything.

So even as the pounds came off and my body weakened with the increasing weight of it, I carried it. For the family that I love so much.

But I didn’t want to die. I wanted my children to have a mother. I wanted my children to actually meet their mother – not the woman who did everything she thought she was supposed to do. I never dared answer the question, “who am I?”. Because I knew the answer looked nothing like this person I was trying so desperately to be. 

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The past eight months have been wrought with the deepest grief and guilt and anguish I have ever felt. Some days I wake up and still can’t believe I got here. But I did. I survived. The children are adjusting to the new normal – separate homes but two parents who adore and support them and love and care for each other. We are still family; we just look a little different. And I’m reminding them – and myself – that different is okay; unique and beautiful. Like a rainbow.

My seven-year old came home from school last week and said a child in his class said she “hates gay people”. Now, at this point, I had had many conversations with the kids about my truth. But the seven-year-old usually got distracted/lost interest and carried on about his playing. I hoped he was truly hearing me, but honestly wasn’t sure. So when he told me about the kid in class, I froze. I’m not even sure I’d heard him say the word “gay” before. I think my immediate response was, “Oh nooo…”, trailing off into hopeful silence. And he said, “Yup! And I told her, ‘Hey! You can’t say that! That’s my mom you’re talking about. My mom’s gay and she’s my mom and I love her, she’s my family. You can’t say you hate gay people because that means you hate my mom’. I told him, very honestly, that he was my hero. We were both so proud.

The classmate told him the next day that she doesn’t hate gay people any more. 

Coming out is not a moment. It is a commitment to a lifetime of brave, scary moments. My only agenda, now, is to live authentically, to encourage my kids to always be true to themselves, to show love and kindness and to celebrate diversity. 

Happy pride to all the rainbow beauties (in or out) and their glorious allies. I’ll see you at the parade.

HOAR