The night I decided to tell my mom who I truly was felt like walking a tightrope across a chasm. Fear pulsed through me, each beat of my heart echoing in my ears like a drum. Talking to my parents about everyday things was already a challenge, let alone something so deeply personal and vulnerable. Doubt gnawed at me – should I even say anything? Maybe retreating to the safety of my room and living in quiet obscurity was the easier path. Stress, my unwelcome companion, tightened its grip, making my body feel rigid and locked. I could feel the phantom prickle of tears I hadn’t yet shed. Finally, propelled by a mix of courage and recklessness, I blurted out the question that had been weighing on my soul: “Would you still love me the same if I were a boy?”
A young person with short hair and a thoughtful expression, representing the courage to ask a life-changing question about love and acceptance.
The question hung in the air, thick with unspoken anxieties. I was on the verge of tears, close to succumbing to a wave of sadness that threatened to engulf me. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Then, my mom’s words cut through the tension: she said she Would Still Love Me The Same, no matter who I was. The conversation ended there, brief but monumental. The following evening, we revisited the topic in a longer talk. The specifics of that conversation are now hazy, but the tears I shed are still vivid in my memory. Yet, amidst the tears, a profound sense of peace settled over me. Beneath that peace, however, a tremor of fear still lingered, a quiet undercurrent in the newfound calm.
The second time I shared this part of myself was in a fifth-grade essay. The prompt was about life’s journey, and I used the metaphor of a maze, where everyone faces unique challenges. I placed my own “challenge” at the very end of the essay, a quiet revelation. What made me particularly anxious was the peer review process; a classmate had to proofread my work. After reading my words, my classmate’s face registered a look of surprise, almost panic. He quickly mumbled that my essay was “fine” and practically fled.
Later that day, my teacher, Ms. Dufour, approached me as we walked on the track. She offered a simple yet powerful message: “You can come talk to me if you ever need any help.” Her words were a lifeline. She was the first person outside my family to acknowledge my truth, and the first to call me brave.
I am acutely aware that many individuals face hatred simply for being transgender, gay, or different in any way. Many live in fear of sharing their true selves with their own families. Learning about the prejudice and animosity directed at people for something inherent to their being fills me with anger and frustration.
Nelson Mandela’s wisdom resonates deeply: “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”
I can only imagine the countless individuals who have grown up feeling different, suppressed and unseen, like grass buried under heavy snow. But like grass, we possess an inherent resilience, a capacity to spring back, stronger, wiser, and more compassionate. The number of people who have been hurt or even lost their lives because of who they are is devastating. However, I am incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by people who would still love me the same, unconditionally and endlessly, regardless of my identity. For what I am, some might use hateful words, but I have been called brave. I don’t see myself as brave. True bravery lies in the oppressed, in their ability to rise again and again after being stepped on. Why can’t we all simply live in peace? Why can’t the world embrace peace?
