My mom recently sent my partner a handwritten note thanking her for a book she gifted her for her birthday. I recognized the handwriting on the envelope almost immediately, and was left mouth agape when I realized it was addressed to my partner. “Look how far we’ve come,” I thought to myself in a dazed stupor as I brought it into our apartment. Since coming out almost 8 years ago, there has always been a push and pull between my queerness and my parents, the feeling of living in a liminal space between acceptance and rejection ever present. With fighting what feels like an endless uphill battle with the goal of full understanding, I’ve come to believe that peace doesn’t actually come from being fully understood, but from being authentically myself anyway.
Unlike some, I didn’t know I was queer from an early age, avoiding the uncomfortableness of coming out young and afraid. My coming out was sudden and unexpected, a matter-of-fact statement made to lessen the blow between myself and the inevitable reaction of my parents’ disappointment. The future they prayed and longed for was gone, and in place of it was my determination to gain their ultimate support. They had raised a relentlessly kind, smart, and extremely funny daughter (if you don’t believe me, ask my mom, she will tell you I am their funniest child), and I was on a mission to win them and their beliefs over by any means necessary.
Over the next few years, there would be setbacks that returned us to square one and small victories gleaming with progress that moved us forward. It was never the extreme progress I was hoping for in the beginning, but every moment counted. Meeting my partner for the first time was a win, asking about her in conversation was a win, and getting her a gift for the holidays was a win. Small wins might not seem like much in the moment, but they add up over time, slowly building something steadier to stand on. The need to “win them over” dimmed and was replaced with a quiet hope—not the loud, all-consuming kind that begs for change—the steady kind that trusts in small steps and welcomes the idea of grace to the table.
In the queer space, there is often a lot of conversation around “choosing your battles,” but maybe the harder, more honest conversation is accepting that some battles can’t be won. The journey of releasing the dream that one day they’ll wholeheartedly understand is painful, but it has given me the opportunity to witness my energy shifting toward different parts of my life: nurturing my affirming relationships, continuing therapy, being Auntie E to my niece and nephew, and planning my next adventure. These moments remind me that while I can’t control the process of those still grappling with who I am, I can fiercely protect my own.
As I get older—I say at the ripe age of 30—the shimmer and shine of resounding approval from not only my parents, but the world, has faded and made way for my identity to be whole in spite of external hesitation or resistance. There’s grief in knowing some conversations may never happen, but there’s also a deep sigh of relief in no longer having to wait for them to catch up before I move forward. The grace I have chosen to extend is a precious gift to myself. And I hope someday that grace and peace find my parents, too.
Along the way, I’ve come to see that my parents are also walking through life for the first time, doing the best they can with what they know, shaped by their own fears, limits, and beliefs. That doesn’t excuse everything, but it helps me hold both truths. That I can feel disappointment and still offer grace. I can stop waiting and still hold compassion.
The love I’ve found outside of my family hasn’t erased the sadness, but it’s shown me that wholeness doesn’t require approval from one place; it’s built in the spaces and people who meet me with honesty, softness, and their unwavering presence.
So, although I have extended a metaphorical olive branch, this doesn’t mean I won’t continue to advocate for myself and the LGBTQIA+ community with fervor. That grace exists alongside a deeper conviction. I can hold compassion for those still learning and an unshakable commitment to living out loud. My queerness has never been up for debate, and my peace is no longer on hold, waiting for permission.
I can love my people and still protect myself. I can forgive without forgetting. And I can keep showing up in rooms where I’m not just tolerated but celebrated.
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