I write for those women who don’t speak. For those who don’t have a voice because they were so terrified. Because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves.
We have been taught that silence would save us but I wouldn’t.
Growing up I thought that I was like every other girl who had a slight obsession with Jessica Rabbit, K.D. lang, and Melissa Etheridge.
A girl who was more comfortable borrowing her brothers baggy pants and backwards hats than putting on an Easter dress. Who would rather play in the mud than in makeup, and who dropped out of ballet to get her black belt in Taekwondo.
I felt something that I couldn’t explain. And it was something that made my throat close up and my stomach clench. Something that made my mouth go dry and my pulse race. And it was something so simple, yet so terrifying.
I thought women were beautiful.
But because I was born that way I never once stopped to think that was strange or anything to fear.
I silenced my voice because I thought it would save me.
I also thought that men were beautiful.
There was a time, despite what it may have looked like on the surface, that the fear had gripped me so tight, and I felt broken and unlovable. And I did not think I would see tomorrow.
And I thought, what the hell is that? And when I found out, a light bulb went off. The word didn’t make me feel marginalized. It made me feel less crazy. It made me feel less alone. It gave me hope. An actress just said a word, but it made a world of difference in my life and in my identity.
But because of the voices I listened to, because of the people I identified with, the films I had watched, the music I had heard, because of words like ‘bisexual’ and the doors that it opened, I’m still here.
And I didn’t miss out on the most beautiful thing I’ve seen yet, and that was my son. Visibility creates hope.
Never stop fighting.