Growing up, I was the kind of relative who always showed up. I would spend weeks in different family homes, travel long distances just to be around them. I was the social butterfly in my family. I loved it so much and I belonged.

Then I came into my queerness. And nothing explicitly changed but everything felt different.

There were no confrontations. No harsh words from any of them. No one shut a door in my face. But once I knew who I was, a quiet space started to grow between me and my people. Because suddenly I found myself replaying every possible reaction in my head… what if they know and no longer want me around… what if they hear it from somebody else and I have to be confronted… What if they lock me up for weeks of prayer thinking they would convert me? 

So I pulled back. I stopped visiting. I stopped showing up like I used to. I started protecting myself from what might happen if they didn’t love me the same way anymore.

At a recent funeral, I found myself surrounded by some of them whose homes used to be my second and third. One of them said:

“You used to be really good at visiting us and everyone. What happened to you? Nobody seems to know what you are up to these days?” 

The weight of my silence over the years caught up with me right at that question. 

What happened to me? Nothing and everything. I grew into myself. I wrestled with fear, guilt and shame. I got tired of hiding. And I couldn’t quite figure out how to bring my full self back into spaces that only ever knew a part of me. And that’s the saddest part, the way fear and silence can build walls all on their own.

But I showed up. I stood in the room. I hugged my people. I mourned a loved one. And I quietly hoped that maybe someday, I’d show up not just in presence but in wholeness.