As we celebrate Pride Month, I have the privilege of telling a story that is deeply personal—my own.
I knew I was gay at a young age. I remember being in fifth grade and feeling attracted to boys instead of girls, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong. One side of my family was very active in the Christian church, while the other side grew up on a farm with more traditional values. My immediate family didn’t attend church or place much importance on religion, but I still felt that pressure. I grew up in a small town in Ohio where religion played a major role in the community. Most nights, I would pray to any god who would listen to fix me and make me straight.
When I was 16, I was dating a boy who lived an hour away. We talked about how much easier life would be if we came out so we wouldn’t have to keep sneaking around. I remember going to Wendy’s with my mom because I figured if I told her in public, she wouldn’t make a scene. When I told her I was gay, she didn’t say a word. Instead, she got up and headed to the car, fighting back tears.
We drove home in complete silence. When we arrived, she got out of the car and told my dad that I had something to tell him. I came out to him, and once again, silence filled the room. After a while, I went to my bedroom and called my boyfriend to see how things had gone for him. He told me he had decided he wasn’t ready to come out after all.
The two years that followed were some of the hardest of my life. Whenever I entered a room, my dad would leave it. My mom and I barely spoke. The last time I went to my grandparents’ house, I was walking through the door when my uncle said, “The fag’s here.” I never went back. On the other side of my family, things weren’t much better. They didn’t say as much, but I never felt truly welcomed again.
It wasn’t until later in life that I realized how much of that hate and shame I had allowed myself to carry. I never celebrated Pride or attended a parade until I was in my 20s. I dated men who carried their own internalized shame, and I often let them project it onto me. I wanted to put a Pride flag outside my apartment, but I was never with someone who felt comfortable being openly proud, and I allowed that to stop me from celebrating myself.
Everything changed when I met my current boyfriend. For the first time, I felt encouraged to embrace both myself and the LGBTQ+ community. I also began surrounding myself with people who were proud of who they were and proud of our community. Being around that kind of confidence and self-acceptance helped me realize how much of my own life I had spent hiding parts of myself.
During our first year together, he invited me to join him on a Pride float. As we rode through the crowd, surrounded by people cheering, celebrating, and showing love, something inside me changed. Seeing so many people who accepted us exactly as we were filled my heart in a way I had never experienced before. In that moment, I stopped caring what other people thought and started celebrating who I am. More importantly, I began celebrating our community.
Pride Month is often seen as a celebration, but for many of us, it is also a reminder of the journey it took to get here. My story is one of pain, rejection, growth, and, ultimately, acceptance. Today, I celebrate Pride not because my journey was easy, but because I finally learned that there was never anything wrong with me in the first place.
Photos courtesy of Randy Brenstuhl
