I was 15
when I came out of the closet…
and ended up on the street.
No applause.
No rainbow confetti.
No RuPaul track playing in the background like a fabulous gay fairy tale.
Just me,
a garbage bag of clothes,
a slammed door,
and a silence that hummed like heartbreak.
That was my welcome to being gay.
I was raised Catholic.
Not “Christmas and Easter” Catholic,
I mean full-blown confess-your-thoughts-about-Ricky-Martin Catholic.
Church every Sunday.
Rosaries.
Guilt… lots of it.
They told me to love God…
but not like men.
So I prayed. Hard.
To be “normal.”
To wake up with a sudden interest in boobs and dirt bikes.
I prayed so much,
I could do the Hail Mary in under 10 seconds,
blindfolded, while crying, and brushing my teeth.
But when I finally said the words,
“I’m gay,”
those prayers didn’t soften anything.
No angels showed up.
Only a mother with heartbreak in her eyes
and a “pack your things” on her lips.So I did.
Here’s the twist though:
I used to play football.
Yeah… cleats, tackles, full-on jock life.
And so did my first boyfriend.
We were teammates…
and then roommates.
And then, well,
boyfriends with shared trauma and a twin mattress.
When both our parents kicked us out,
we moved in together.
Two 15-year-old boys,
figuring out rent, ramen,
and how to hide tears in public bathrooms.
I lied about where we were living.
Said I was “staying with friends.”
Showed up to school like everything was fine.
Even when I was starving.
Even when everything hurt.
And that…
was my first taste of Pride.
Not the parade.
Not the glitter.
Not the glam.
But the quiet, stubborn kind.
The “I’m still here” kind.
The “watch me survive” kind.
In school, I got bullied.
They whispered “faggot” like it was a spell meant to vanish me.
And for a while… I did disappear.
Into myself.
Until one day,
I cracked. I got loud.
Got mean.
Got funny.
And accidentally became… a bully.
Because if I made you the punchline,
then I couldn’t be one.
And honestly?
Therapist says: iconic trauma, villain era.
But broken kids wear armour however they can.
In my 20s, I was a mess with Internet.
(Yeah, that one with the horrible phone sound.)
Terrible jobs…
Worse taste in men…
A strict diet of frozen pizza, mezcal shots, and red flags.
But I kept going.
Finished two degrees.
Opened my own little restaurant.
Not Michelin-starred…
but hey, the health inspector only gave us one warning. (Just kidding. Kind of.)
Safe.
Stable.
Mine.
Then one day…
a message.
From her.
My mom.
“I miss you. Can we talk?”
So we did.
We cried.
We screamed (in Spanish… very healing).
We listened.
She apologized.
I told her I was still hurt.
But we tried.
Slowly,
we learned each other again.
Found love in the wreckage.
And now?
Now I’ve got something 15-year-old me never dreamed of…
I’m married.
To a man who makes me laugh,
makes me coffee,
and makes me feel safe in a way I didn’t know men could.
And yes…
my mother walked me down the aisle.
She cried.
I cried.
Even the DJ cried.
(It was Madonna’s “Like a Virgin…” who doesn’t cry at that?)
So yeah,
I’m proud.
Proud of the pain I survived.
Proud of the boy who didn’t disappear.
Proud of the man I became…
with jokes, scars, and a hell of a lot of glitter.
Pride isn’t just a parade.
It’s not just drag and disco (although… bless those queens).
It’s surviving.
It’s forgiving.
It’s calling your mom after coming out…
and knowing she’ll answer.
It’s saying,
“This is who I am,”
and not flinching anymore.
I used to kneel in church,
begging God to fix me.
Now I stand up tall,
husband by my side,
knowing there was never anything broken to begin with.
And bro…
no slammed door,
no whispered slur,
no prayer for “normal,”
will ever make me doubt my pride again.
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