I came out at an early age.
When I was eight years old, I distinctly remember my mom talking to me about gay people, what that meant, and explained how my aunt wasn’t bringing her “friend” home for holidays, it was her girlfriend, and that to my mom, they were both part of our family. She laid it down that being gay is something to embrace about oneself, not be ashamed of, and to let me know that if I ever thought I was gay, I was still her son and it wouldn’t change how much she loved me.
When I came out to friends and family five years later, I asked my mom about that conversation, and what prompted her to have it with me, and she told me that she knew I was gay since I was two years old. It wasn’t because I had a brief fascination with wearing dresses as a toddler, though that may have been part of it, it was more how I reacted to things. What caught my attention when watching a TV show or movie. My responses to things other people said. From an early age I had an idea of what was important to me, what was at my core, and she picked up on it and when she felt the time was right, encouraged me to always be myself.
I love you, mom.
But this post is about what comes later and mom, if you’re reading this, well, you’ve been warned.
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